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Chaste as Ice, Pure as Snow. 



A NOVEL. 



BY 

MRS. M. C. DESPARD. 



Bam. If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry : Be th« 
4ta chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. 

Hamlet, Act IIL Some I 



PHILADELPHIA : 

POPTER & COATES, 



CONTENTS. 



PART I. 

A WOMAN FACE TO FACE WITH THE WORLD. 

CHAP. FAfin 

I. A PiCTTJBE AND A FaCE 7 

II. Adele and Margaeet 12 

III. A Woman Face to Face with the World 18 

IV. Morning Thoughts — A Resolve Taken 28 

V. Found — A Friend 31 

VI. The Young Heir 39 

VII. A Cunning Tempter 45 

VIII. Arthur Falls into the Snare 53 

IX. Arthur's Secret 57 

X. How Adele Receives the Disclosure 62 

XI. A Face at the Window 68 

XII. Flight 73 

XIII. Lessons in World-wisdom « 82 

XIV. Laura 88 

XV. A Dream op the Sea 97 

XVI. Unexpected Visitors at Middlethorpe 99 



PART II. 

A MAN AT WAR WITH HIMSELF. 

I. Maurice Grey HI 

II, Society versus Solitude 116 



2135522 



4 CONTENTS. 

PART III. 

A DOUBLE MYSTERY 

CHAP. FAOB 

I. Partial Discovebies 120 

n. Go AND See Her 125 

III. The House is Empty- „ 132 

rV. Jane's Revenge 138 

V. The Lawyer in his own Domain 143 

VL Mr. Robinson Promises to do his Best 150 

VU. The Two Friends 156 

VIIL The Indian Scarf ^oO 

IX. Arthur Arrives at Middlethorpe 166 

X. On the Brink op Madness 170 

XI. The Accolade of Knighthood 177 

XIL "I Shall Live and Not Die" 185 

XIIL Arthur at Work 189 

XIV. Two Interviews.. 193 

XV. The Young People Understand each other at 

Last 198 

XVI. A Storm 208 

XVII. What the Storm Brought 213 

XVIII. Light in Darkness 222 

XIX. Good-night and Good-bye 229 



PART IV. 

AT WORK WITH A WILL. 

I. Laura's Task 241 

II. A Wasted Life 256 

in. A Tale about the Stabs 269 

rV. Moscow 284 

V. A Glimpse op Margaret's Child 294 

VI. The Life op a Solitary 308 

VII. The Work op Margaret's Messenger Begun 316 

Vm. A TtTE-1-TfeTE Dinner at the Hotel 325 

IX. A Tormented Spirit 336 

X. Peace, Be Still 343 

XI. Haunting Memories 347 

XII, Told Among the Snows 355 



CONTENTS. 6 

PART y. 

THE MYSTERY SOLVED— THE WOEKEES EEWARDED. 

CHAP PAQB 

I. Waiting 366 

II. The Lawyer Gains his Point 374 

III. Threatened Separation 386 

IV. A Dream Interrupted, and a Strange Retelation 

Made 396 

V. Es 1st nur Ein Kindlein — Only a CniiiD 404 

VI. Hadst Thou the Second Sight? 411 

VII. Fob a Second Time Saved from Himself 418 

VIIL A Parting 429 

IX. The Nest is Empty 438 

X. Laura and her Father ; 446 

XL United at Last 449 

XII. A Long Sleep 458 



Chaste as Ice, Pure as Snow. 



PART I. 

A WOMAN PACE TO FACE WITH THE WORLD. 



CHAPTER I. 

A PIOTUBE AND A FACE. 

There was a woman, beautiful as morning, 
Sitting beneath the rocka upon the sand 
Of the waste sea — fair as one flower adorning 
An icy wilderness — each delicate hand 
Lay crossed upon her bosom, and the band 
Of her dark hair had fallen, and so she sat 
Looking upon the waves. 

London and May. What visions of gayety and beauty, 
of life and brightness, the conjunction of those two words 
brings before the mind ! London in May, when, as it might 
almost seem, the first gleam of sunshine had called forth, 
from the essential nothing of obscurity, gay flutterers of a 
million colored hues, to spread their wings and float joyously 
in an atmosphere of hope. 

For, let who will speak of the balmy breezes and deep 
azure skies of the children of the South, there are some who 
would maintain that in the resurrection of the fashionable 
corners of England's great city from their winter sleep, in the 
sometimes keen wind that rouses the island spirit of opposition 
and braces the nerves of the idlers, even in the rapid changes 

7 



8 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

that pass over the sky, there is more exhilaration, more 
strong incitement to courage and hope, than in the full flush 
of radiant summer which May often brings in climes held to 
be more highly favored by Nature. 

London, in May, when the streets are filled with gay equi- 
pages, whose prancing steeds seem to rejoice in the dignity of 
their position, taking a part in the great saturnalia of rank 
and fashion — when the dresses of the ladies are only eclipsed 
by the brilliancy of the shop-windows which they daily haunt 
— when the artist and musician bring forth their choicest 
wares to delight the senses and gratify the perceptions of the 
great and the little who' throng busy London in this fairest 
season of the year. 

It was in London, then, and the month was May. So much 
being said, little more description is needful : like bold divers, 
we must leave the coast, and plunge at once into the great sea 
of humanity, drawing thence, it may be, a pearl which but for 
our efforts had remained there still. For all this humanity, 
which our vast London so fitly represents, is composed of in- 
dividuals ; each individual has a separate tale to tell, though 
all have not the voice to tell it ; and in the tale of the bidden 
life there is sometimes a beauty and pathos, a dignity and 
wonder, that the dramatist and poet might do well to seize. 
But it is seldom that they are caught and transferred. Beside 
the hidden tragedies and heartrending emotions of the every- 
day life of humanity these transcripts are often pale and 
■colorless — a body that waits for the breath of life to kindle 
it into beauty. 

It was early in the afternoon of a bright May day. Even 
for that season London seemed unusually crowded. In Re- 
gent street the difficulty was to move forward at all, and in 
Pall Mall and the Strand matters were not much better. 
Woe to the unlucky foreigners or country cousins who found 
crossing the street an absolute necessity ! They might have 
been seen generally at the most crowded spots, shivering on 
the brink of what for the moment was worse than the vague, 
shadowy Jordan of the pilgrims, and too often submitting 
ignominiously to the guidance of that being almost super- 
human in his callous indifference to rattling wheels and 
horses' heads — the policeman. 



A PICTURE AND A FACE. 9 

But in and about a certain comer of Charing Cross the 
crowd seemed to culminate. To tell of the pedestrians of 
every shade and hue, the carriages, the omnibuses, which 
kept up a constant stream in this direction, would take 
volumes, for the Exhibition of the Royal Academy had only 
been open a week, and had not, therefore, lost the first charm 
of novelty. 

Thither many were hastening, mostly ladies of the fashion- 
able class, gayly dressed in all the freshness of early summer 
coloring. But those who thronged to the Royal Academy 
on this May afternoon were not all of the fashionable class ; 
there were besides some who went from a true love of art, a 
patient thirst for the beautiful — pale students, whose eyes 
had long grown used to dusky streets, and to whom the 
yearly vision of the something that always lies beyond was a 
revelation and a power ; governesses and female artisans who 
had taken a holiday for the express purpose of enjoying the 
image of that which hard reality had denied to them. Many 
of these were shabbily dressed, and pallid from the wasting 
effects of hard work and care ; they enjoyed, however, more 
perhaps than their brilliant sisters, who could glibly criticise 
this style and that, with the true art-jargon and an appear- 
ance of intimate knowledge, but to whom this, that charmed 
those others, was only a matter of course, a somewhat tire- 
some routine, that must of necessity be performed as a part 
of the season's work. 

On a corner of a seat in a central hall one seemingly of 
this latter class had found a place. She could not certainly 
have belonged to the fashionable world, for her scanty black 
dress was made with no pretension to style, and she wore a 
close bonnet, from under which a plain white border, that 
resembled a widow's cap, was peeping. There was one detail, 
however, in her dress that drew the attention of some who 
passed her. She wore, fastened gracefully round her shoul- 
ders in rather a foreign style, a silk Indian scarf of the richest 
coloring and workmanship. It harmonized strangely with 
the rest of her dress and her general appearance, but it was 
not unbecoming. Those who, attracted by this incongruity, 
looked at her attentively, saw a face that was almost startling 
in its pure beauty of outline, and a form whose refired grace 



10 CHASTE AS ICE, PUBE AS SNOW. 

did not require the assistance of the toilet to add to ita 
charms. 

" That woman could wear anything," was the reflection of 
one or two who glanced at her in passing. 

She knew nothing of their criticism. Hour after hour 
passed away, and still she remained in the same place-— a 
solitude to her, peopled by the multitude of thoughts to 
which the sight of one small picture had given rise. And 
that picture was, to many of those who had admired her in 
their rapid transit from one flower of art to another, a very 
commonplace afiair. We see with such difierent eyes, for is 
not the perception of beauty a birthright of spirit ? Where 
soul illumines there beauty lies, but only for the soul that 
sees. 

Her eyes saw the picture, and her spirit saw beyond it. 
Hence the beauty that drew and enchained her. Besides, 
the picture had a history. From h§r own consciousness she 
translated its meaning. 

Probably few will remember the picture, for it did not 
write its name on the art-history of the period, and its author 
is unknown to fame ; but it certainly possessed power. Per- 
haps it was one of those flashes thrown ofi" in the fire of youth 
by what might have been a grand genius if it had not been 
swamped in the great ocean of modern realism, thus losing 
for ever the divine breath of imaginative power. The picture 
was small. In its quiet corner it lived its life unnoticed by 
the crowd. 

This is what it represented. In the background a sea 
just tinged with the gold of sunset, and skirting it a barren, 
rocky shore ; on the shore a woman in an attitude of eager, 
waiting expectation ; in the far distance a sail that has 
gathered on its whiteness some of the bright evening color- 
ing ; overhead a deepening sky, in which faint stars seem to 
be struggling into sight. The woman's face is traced sharply 
against the sky. It is beautiful, the blessed dawning of a 
ne\v-born hope seeming to glimmer faintly from the deep 
horrors of a past despair. She leans over a projecting ledge 
of rock, not heeding in her rapt eagerness the sharp point 
that seems to pierce her tender hand, only gazing, aa if hei 



A PICTURE AND A FACE. 11 

90ul were lii her eye, at the white point in the distance, which 
aolds, as she imagines, the object of her hope. 

There were pictures in the close neighborhood of this one 
that, to the art-critic, possessed far greater claims to admira- 
tion, but the woman with the shabby dress saw none of them. 
She sat on her crimson-covered seat, her hands folded and 
her eyes fixed, looking at the one picture that had touched 
her ; she looked at it until she saw it no longer ; a film gath- 
ered over her eyes ; the picture, the room, the crowds, all her 
surrounding, had vanished. She was living in the region of 
thought alone, busying herself with the problem which the 
picture had evoked. 

And as she sat rooted to the one spot, herself a fairer pic- 
ture than any which that roof covered, the afternoon waned 
away and the galleries thinned. The fashionable crowd were 
beginning to think of their dinner-toilet. The woman was 
left alone on her seat in the centre of one of the halls, a 
somewhat conspicuous object, for her singular style of dress 
and her strange beauty would have gained her observation 
anywhere. 

It was at about this time that a young gentleman dressed 
in the height of fashion, with an eye-glass carefully adjusted 
in his right eye, strolled leisurely through the hall. He was 
evidently a very young man, one who had not yet been 
aroused from the delusion so pleasing while it lasts of his own 
vast superiority to — almost everything ; it is scarcely neces- 
sary to particularize — his own sex, with perhaps a few excep- 
tions, certainly all women and lesser creatures. His walk 
revealed this small weakness to any one who chose to take 
the trouble of observing him closely and the carriage of his 
head, which was held very erect, the chin being slightly 
elevated. 

He held a catalogue in his hand, but he very seldom con 
suited it. To have compared the number of the picture 
with that of its description would have been, to use a pet 
phrase with young men, an awful bore. And an awful bore 
he seemed to find the whole afiair as he walked through the 
picture-lined galleries, smothering a yawn from time to time. 
He was evidently looking out for some one who had ap- 
pointed this place as a rendezvous, and as evidently he was 



12 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

rather more indignant than disappointed at not Cndijja 
directly the object of his search. 

At last, as it seemed, he had enough of it. Considering 
himself a sufficiently conspicuous object not to be lightly 
passed by by any who had once been favored with the honor 
of his acquaintance, he threw himself on one of the seats, 
fully determined to take no more trouble in the matter, but 
to leave the denouement to fate. 

There was one other on the seat he had chosen, but our 
young gentleman, in spite of his small vanities, was too truly 
a gentleman to honor the solitary woman who occupied it 
with that supercilious stare which, unconsciously to herself, 
had more than once been cast on her that day. In sheer 
idleness, and for want of something better to do, he looked 
rather attentively at the picture which faced him, and pres- 
ently he too had fallen under its spell. 

The beauty of the woman by the sea-shore, her sadness, 
her desolation, attracted him powerfully. Before many mo- 
ments had passed he found himself tracing every line of her 
face and form, and dreaming out the tragedy which her face 
revealed. 

He was awoke from his reverie by a faint sobbing sigh, 
and looking round he discovered that the woman who shared 
his seat was struggling with a faintness that seemed gradually 
to be overpowering her. Before he could rise to offer her 
assistance her head had fallen back upon the crimson 
cushion, the little close bonnet had dropped off, and the 
white face, in its chiselled beauty, lay stricken with a death- 
calm close to his shoulder. 



CHAPTER n. 

AD^LE AND MARGARET. 

In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. 

Very young men are not, as a rule, passionate admirers 
of the fair sex. They like to be flattered and caressed by 
women, they delight in imaginary conquests, treating the sex 



ADtLE AND MABOARET. 15 

generally with a sort of compassionate condescension. Their 
chief cultus is the ego that is to do and to dare such great 
things in the untried future. 

There are some who cherish this pet delusion through life, 
who are always superior. Should such have women depend- 
ent upon them the fate of those women is scarcely enviable, 
They are expected to walk through life inferior. But in the 
lives of most men there is an awakening. Sometimes the 
favorite pursuit — science, art, literature — rising gradually 
into vaster proportions as it is more ardently followed, dwarfs 
the man in his own estimation by contrast with what he 
seeks. The ideal being ever so far in advance, he begins to 
take a truer estimate of his powers and to try to enlarge 
them. Sometimes it is the world of life, contact with other 
minds and the feeling of their superiority ; sometimes it is 
the world of nature, its beauty and its mystery. These are 
the majority. 

To a few perhaps — a very few — the awakening comes from 
another power. It ts a power, whatever may be said to the 
contrary, a great power for good or for evil — the power of 
beauty, as it rests brooding on God's last and fairest gift U 
man — woman. 

The mind, the imagination, the heart, all that had lain 
hidden under the crust of self-seeking, rises into play in a 
moment, and the man is changed. Such a man can never 
despise woman, for the one particular star — distant, unattain- 
able in all probability — sheds its lustre upon all that partake 
of its nature. 

If the woman who has gained this power can only use it, 
not selfishly, but grandly, truly, the change for the man is a 
resurrection into new life. If not — Who shall say how 
many young souls have been ruined, perhaps for ever, by this 
same "if not"? 

To return to the May afternoon and the scene in the pic- 
ture-gallery. If any painter had been near he could scarcely 
have chosen a more powerful subject. The young man who 
had first discovered the fainting woman did not consider him- 
self a very emotional person, but for a moment he was abso- 
lutely staggered. He had risen hastily to his feet and stooped 
over her unconsciously. There he remained, helpless as a 



U CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

child in the presence of a mystery it is unable to solve. It 
was only for a moment that the stupor held him ; then, with 
a feeling that was very strange and new, he summoned courage 
to raise her head upon his arm, and with trembling fingers to 
loosen her scarf and bonnet-strings. 

What was to be done next ? Water, smelling-salts, a fan- 
he had not one of these appliances to restore her, and he 
shrank painfully from gathering a crowd by asking assist- 
ance ; for as yet the back of the seat had hidden her from 
the very few who were still walking through the galleries, 
those few being mostly lovers of art, and too much absorbed 
in the pictures to have ears or eyes for anything beyond 
them. 

If he could only manage the matter alone ! and rapidly 
the various modes of treating fainting-fits passed through his 
mind. He lifted the beautiful head and laid it down upon 
the seat, raising her feet to the same level ; then, kneeling 
beside her, he opened her white fingers and rubbed the palms 
of her hands, watching eagerly for a sign of life. But it 
would not do: the dark eyelashes rested still on the pale, 
calm face, no quivering of the eyelids showed dawning con- 
sciousness. If he could have imparted to her some of his 
own exuberant life — for the warm blood was throbbing and 
tingling through his veins till his very finger-tips seemed 
instinct with consciousness — he would have stooped and 
breathed into her lips ; but he dared not : there was a ma- 
jesty in her helpless beauty that only a very coarse mind 
could have resisted. 

It takes long to relate, but in reality only a few moments 
had passed from the time of the woman's first faintness to 
the instant when the young man, finding his efforts fruitless, 
turned with a sigh to seek assistance from any lady who 
might be passing through the gallery. The first face that 
greeted him was one he knew. It was that of a young girl, 
very bright and pleasant in appearance, decked out in the 
brilliancy of light muslin and fluttering ribbons. She saw 
him instantly, and went smilingly across the room with ex- 
tended hand. " Oh, Arthur, you naughty boy !" she began, 
but catching sight of the fainting woman, she broke off" 
hastily: "Some one in a faint? Heavens! what a lovely 



ABilLE AND MABQARET. ' 15 

face ! Poor thing ! it is the heat. Go off quickly and get 
some water, Arthur ; I should think you could get it at the 
door : you boys are such helpless beings." 

She was down on her knees as she spoke, fluttering her fan 
gently and applying her smelling-salts ; but her volubility 
had already collected in a little crowd the few people who 
remained in the galleries. She put them off with pretty ges- 
tures and ready wit : " My friend wants air ; I assure you it 
is only a fainting-fit — nothing to alarm." 

But she was relieved when Arthur's appearance with the 
water put the lookers-on to a sudden flight, and they were 
once more left to themselves. 

" Oh, Arthur," said the young girl earnestly, " how beauti- 
ful she is ! I must give her a little kiss before she awakes, as 
she will, I am sure, with the water. There, there, my 
beauty !" for the kiss seemed to be the most effectual remedy. 
Her eyelids quivered, causing thereby such excitement to 
Arthur that part of the contents of the glass of water he held 
fell over her feet, and Addle — for that was the name of the 
young lady who had given such timely assistance — told him 
with mock indignation to go off, and not come again till he 
was called. Without a word Arthur turned away. He 
would scarcely have been so obedient the day before, but the 
incident of that afternoon seemed to have robbed him of his 
power. He stood in the entrance of the hall, watching until 
he should be sent for by the ladies. 

For the first time in his life Arthur wished he had been a 
girl. His thoughts, to tell the truth, were rapidly becoming 
very sentimental. Addle, happy Addle ! he thought of her 
with a new respect. She could carry on these gentle minis- 
tries impossible to the rougher hands of men. With what 
tenderness and skill she had used her remedies ! And then 
the kiss ! Yes, women, after all, possessed certain advantages. 
And her first look would be for Addle. If he had been more 
expert, it might have been for him. Had any one told 
Arthur, even an hour before, that he could ever have been 
jealous of his cousin, he would certainly have scorned the 
idea : he had always considered himself so vastly superior to 
women in general, and his pretty little playmate in particular. 
He had not much time, however, to indulge in these briJ 



J 6 CHASTE AS ICE, PUBE AS SNOW. 

liantly novel ideas, for before many moments had passed 
Ad^le appeared. " You may offer her your arm," she said. 
" I want to get her out of this place as quickly as possible." 

" Have you found out anything about her ?" 

" Only that her name is Margaret Grey. A letter dropped 
out of her pocket, and I saw the signature, or rather she 
pointed it out to me as I handed it back to her. I fancy she 
is a widow, though she has not actually told me so. She is 
staying in lodgings at some distance. Poor thing! I am 
afraid she is very poor." 

Ad^le's pretty face was clouded as she spoke, but she said 
no more, for they were very near the spot where Margaret 
had been left. 

" Margaret !" thought Arthur, " Margaret !" and the one 
word seemed tc cling about his brain like a sweet, indefinable 
music as awkwardly enough, it must be confessed, he ap- 
proached her to offer his arm. 

She rose when she saw him, a slight blush on her cheek, 
but as she looked up at his frank young face the blush faded 
and her composure returned. 

" I have to thank yOu for great kindness, sir," she said with 
a gentle dignity. " I cannot think what came over me just 
now. It must have been the heat of the place ; but I feel 
much stronger now, and if you will add to your goodness the 
further favor of giving me your arm for the length of the 
galleries, I can find my way home without any more assist- 
ance." 

Her voice was almost as overpowering to Arthur as her 
face had been. He tried to stammer out a reply, when Adele 
came happily to his assistance. Taking one of the lady's 
hands in her own, she said with gentle earnestness, " Pray 
allow me to manage for you. My cousin will tell you how 
much I like to arrange everything for my neighbors ; it is my 
pet weakness. Then, you know, you are my patient, and I 
expect you to be obedient. Mamma has sent the carriage 
for me, for she was not quite certain that I should meet 
Arthur. We can drive you to any point you like to mention. 
Please do not deny me this pleasure." 

The lady blushed again, but Ad^le's gentle delicacy tri- 
umphed. She bowed her head in acquiescence, and took 



ADELE AND MAEGABET. 17 

A-rihur'fi arm, leaning on it somewhat heavily, for she was 
utill weak. AdMe walked on her other side, slightly support- 
ing her from time to time ; and so they passed through the 
gallery, with not many thoughts for the pictures, just as the 
daylight was beginning to wane. 

" street, Islington," said Arthur to the stately coach- 
man when, having at last emerged from the galleries, the trio 
stood beside a small, well-appointed carriage. 

The coachman looked dignifiedly astonished. He took 
note of an exceedingly shabby person who was evidently 
connected with this strange fancy. Had his young lady 
been alone, he might have respectfully demurred ; but as 
Mr. Arthur was a trusted person in the establishment — one, 
moreover, whom it was not safe to offend — he hazarded no 
remark, and after one protest in the shape of repetition, in 
an inquiring key, of the obnoxious address, turned his horses' 
heads in this very unwonted direction. 

He had to ask his way several times before he could find 
the out-of-the-way street indicated by Arthur's brief order ; 
but for at least one of those inside the carriage the drive 
could not have been too long. Arthur Forrest would have 
found it extremely difficult to explain his feelings, even to 
himself. Happily, for the moment it was not necessary. To 
analyze our enjoyment or its sources would be very often to 
rob it of its charm. 

Why is the transparent greenness of spring or its first 
balmy breeze so delicious to the senses ? Why does a certain 
melody echo and re-echo in the brain with a sweetness we 
cannot fathom? Why does beauty — pure outline, graceful 
form, rich coloring — awaken a thrill of gladness in our being? 
We cannot tell. W'e can only rejoice that such things are. 

And Arthur was very young, full of the freshness of youth 
and inexperience. He would have been highly indignant 
could he have heard such a remark applied to him, for he 
looked upon himself as a man of the world whom it would 
be diflBcult to astonish in any way ; but nevertheless it was 
true. The very novelty of his sensations as he sat on the 
back seat of the brougham, looking anywhere rather than in 
the fair face before him, proved this. 

It was well for him that the vision came when it did, when 



18 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

his heart was young and his life vigorous, when the chivalry 
of youth had not passed away, with other beautiful things, 
in the numbing surroundings of a fashionable life. 

At last the carriage stopped at the entrance of a dingy 
Btreet in a region where " apartments" looked out from almost 
every window. The lady would not suffer her new friends to 
take her to her own door, and they possessed sufficient refine- 
ment of feeling to refrain from pressing the point. She 
seemed even to shrink from the prospect of any further 
acquaintance. 

" We live in -different worlds," she said with a sad smile 
when Ad^le, in her girlish enthusiasm, pressed her to allow 
them at least to inquire after her. For Adele was almost as 
much in love as her cousin, certainly more gushingly so ; but 
there was no possibility of resisting the quiet firmness with 
which all efforts after further intimacy were set aside by the 
lady they had helped. 

With warm thanks she bade them farewell, but they both 
noticed, with youth's sympathetic insight, that her eyelids 
drooped as though she had been weary, and her lips slightly 
quivered before she turned away. 

Ad^le's eyes filled with tears, and Arthur had to swallow 
a most uncomfortable lump that seemed to impede his utter- 
ance. Then the cousins became more sympathetic than they 
had ever been before in discussing their adventure and form- 
ing theory after theory about the mysterious stranger. 

But Ad^le was the talker, Arthur the listener, and perhaps 
his cousin's conversation had never before been so much to 
his mind. 



CHAPTER III. 
A WOMAN FACE TO FACE WITH THE WORLD. 

How tedious, false, and cold seem all things ! I 
Have met with much injustice in this world. 

Choking back the tears that seemed as if they urnild well 
forth from a fountain that had long been sealed, Margaret 
Grey turned from her companions of an \cur to go hornet 



FACE TO FACE WITH THE WORLD. 19 

To a very desolate home in truth. Walled in and bricked 
out from the fair sights and sounds of Nature, even the sun- 
beams as they touched it seemed only to reveal its dinginess. 

But four walls cannot make a home, any more than a 
casket can enrich its jewelled contents. The most desolate 
exterior may be endeared by what it holds. It might be so 
with Margaret's home, yet no light came into her pale face 
as she caught sight of her dwelling. For a moment she even 
hesitated — it seemed bitter to meet its dull blankness — only 
a moment ; then with a half smile at her own weakness she 
walked languidly up a few dirty steps and rang the bell. 

It was answered by a servant in keeping with the steps, 
and passing her by, Margaret went into her rooms. They 
consisted of a bed- and sitting-room, separated by folding 
doors. The sitting-room was very much what the exterior of 
the house had promised — very dull, very shabby. A cracked 
mirror was over the chimney-piece, its frame carefully veiled 
by yellow muslin that had lost its primal brightness. A 
chandelier in the centre of the room was also enveloped 
with the same dingy covering. A few shells and gay china 
ornaments were scattered about on unsteady stands. On a 
table beside the window was a group of dusty-looking paper 
flowers. 

Tea was laid, the one cup and saucer telling their pathetic 
tale of a lonely life. Margaret had left her lodgings that 
morning, desperate with the feeling that either her eyes and 
her senses must have some relief or her mind must give way. 
When she returned and looked round her once more, she 
began to fear that her experiment had been worse than use- 
less. The force of contrast had increased the bitterness of 
her lot. 

She sank wearily into a stiflE" pretence of an arm-chair, and 
began again thinking out the problem that beauty and drear- 
iness alike presented to her mind — the uncertain future. And 
then came over her like a flood the vision of days and years 
without hope, without joy. Burying her face in her hands, 
she gave way for a few moments to unrestrained weeping. 
It was an unwonted exercise, for Margaret was brave, and 
none of the last and deepest bitterness, that of remorse, cast 
its shadow on her retrospect of the past. Thoughtless sh» 



20 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

might have been, sinning she was not: of this thing the 
secret court of her inner consciousness, so pitiless to the true 
offender, had freely acquitted her. 

It would be a long story to tell what it was that overcame 
Margaret Grey till she sobbed out her sadness alone in the 
stillness of the May evening. Partly, perhaps, the squalor 
of her present surroundings, for the beautiful face and form 
encased a soul attuned to highest harmonies ; partly the sweet 
womanly sympathy, which she had looked upon only and then 
put resolutely away from her ; partly the daily pinpricks of 
disappointment and repulse that she had encountered in 
prosecuting the business which had led her to London. For, 
like a multitude of helpless women, Margaret was on the 
look-out for employment. 

She had one little girl, a child about six years of age. 
With such a sweet tie children-lovers might wonder at her 
utter desolation. Strange to say, this tie, so sweet to many, 
was to her more of a care than a pleasure. The future of 
her little one weighed heavily on her mind. 

In the lonely seaside village where she had left her it would 
be scarcely possible to educate her to fill the position that 
might be hers in the future. Margaret's scanty means did 
not allow her to think of a residence in town, or of the ex- 
penses of a school education for her daughter, unless, indeed, 
she could earn the necessary money. 

Hence her visit to London. She had been well educated 
herself; of course her first thought was that by educating 
others she could pay for the education of her child. If she 
had loved her little one very much, perhaps she would have 
judged differently. She might have thought it better to 
make a home for her child in any spot, however lonely, feel- 
ing that the lack of some accomplishment would be well 
compensated by the refining influence of a mother's constant 
love and care. 

But Margaret did not love her child so deeply as to find 
her presence a sweet necessity. There was a cloud over her 
motherhood, which robbed it of some of its fair charm. 
Duty to her child, not pleasure in her, was her one idea of 
the tie that alone, at this period of her history, bound her to 
life. It was this made her anxiety that, whatever her own 



FAHE TO FACE WITH THE WOBLD. 21 

lot might be, Laura should have every advantage in the way 
of education and training. And with the an?:iety came the 
need for exertion. Up to the moment when the child's 
growth and development made the mother think of that bug- 
bear of mothers — her education — Margaret had not been 
troubled with any money difficulties. She had lived in her 
retirement, the one trouble of her life wrapping her in its 
gloomy folds, but with no care for the provision of herself 
and her child in the future. Suddenly, inexplicably, one 
source of income had failed. Margaret had not been accus- 
tomed to trouble herself about money : the sufficient came to 
her — that was all she required to know — and this poverty was 
a new and dreadful thing which she found it very difficult to 
realize. 

She tried to fathom the mystery, but it eluded her ; only 
this remained as a hard fact : eighty pounds a year was all 
she received or seemed likely to receive, and Laura had to be 
educated. 

The spirit of self-sacrifice is strong in some women ; it was 
very strong in Margaret. She had loved her solitude by the 
great sea, and had succeeded in making it almost pleasant. 
There she pondered and wept and hoped ; there, if anywhere, 
she thought that her trial must end. She would not enter 
the great world, to be swamped and lost in its multitude. 
Hiding her loss where none could know and none would 
blame, she would live in the midst of a savage loneliness 
which seemed almost sympathetic to her mood. 

This suited her, but would it do for Laura ? Was she a 
fit companion for her child, already dreamy and imaginative 
beyond her years? No, Margaret told herself; and, leaving 
the little one in the care of the woman from whom she hired 
their little cottage, she went to London alone, to try and find 
some occupation for herself. 

She had been directed to Islington as a cheap neighbor- 
hood ; and there she had stayed in a wretched lodging-house 
for about three weeks — ^three ages to poor Margaret, filled 
with dismal memories of humiliation and disappointment. 
She was reviewing it all that evening — the rudeness, the re- 
pulses, the cruel cross-examinations ; for with these came the 
fresher scenes which that day had brought — the chivalrous 



22 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

admiration that liad shone out of Arthur's young eyes, the 
gentle, womanly tenderness of AdSle. 

Employers — so it seemed to poor Margaret ; they were a 
very new class to her — were cast in a different mould. It 
was their duty to ask disagreeable questions and to probe 
unhealed wounds ; it was their duty to be stiff and cros?. and 
not at all impressed with the outward advantages which 
Margaret knew she possessed. It seemed very hopeless, but 
she felt it necessary to persevere, at least for a little while 
longer. The thought aroused her. She raised her head, and 
became suddenly conscious of the fact of hunger. She had 
not eaten a morsel since breakfast. No wonder, she thought, 
that faintness had overpowered her. So she went into her 
bedroom and washed away the traces of tears, that the dirty 
maid-of-all-work might not read her weakness, then rang the 
bell to order an egg or something a little more substantial 
than usual for her tea. 

Th» girl came in, holding out a card that had not been 
improved, in point of coloring, by its transit through her 
fingers. She informed Margaret that a lady had left it half 
an hour ago with a message. 

The message, not very lucidly delivered, was to the effect 
that the lady whose name appeared in minute letters on the 
card would, in all probability, call again in the course of the 
evening. 

Poor Margaret ! she looked at the cardf " Mrs. Augustus 
Brown." It had not a very encouraging sound, but it might 
mean business, and business meant provision for Laura's 
needs. But the thought of the impending interview had 
robbed her of all appetite ; so, after hastily swallowing a cup 
of tea with a dry biscuit, she again rang the bell, had the 
tea-apparatus cleared away, and then sat by the window try- 
ing to read. 

The apparition of a yellow chariot which seemed to fill tlie 
narrow street interrupted her, and before many minutes a 
thundering rap at the door made her aware of the fact that 
the dreaded visitor was at hand. Margaret's cheek burned. 
For one moment she longed desperately for a refuge where 
she could hide her head from these intrusions, then she re- 
membered that she had invited them, and strove to brace her 



FACE TO FACE WITH THE WORLD. 23 

nerves to endurance. When, therefore, the door was thrown 
open to its fullest extent by the servant, who, never having 
Been so grand a person in her life as Mrs. Augustus Brown, 
thought it necessary to give her plenty of room, Margaret 
was herself again — the heightened color the struggle had 
called forth alone testifying to her recent emotion. 

Mrs. Augustus Brown was a little round individual, almost 
as broad as she was long, decked out in flounces and laces and 
ribbons : it was one of the chief trials of her life that none of 
these things made her look important. Mrs. Augustus Brown 
was governess-hunting, for she possessed no less than seven 
small likenesses of herself, who began to be unruly, and to 
require, as she w^ould have expressed it, a stricter hand over 
them. 

And this governess-hunting was by no means an uncon- 
genial occupation to Mrs. Brown. It could not but be pleas- 
ing, especially as the yellow chariot and its attendant luxuries 
were of comparatively recent orgin, to dash up to registry- 
ofiices and through quiet streets, and to watch the effect pro- 
duced on the untutored minds of inferior persons by her 
brilliant tout ensemble. But as yet she had not suited her- 
self. In a governess, as she said, "tong" was essential ; her 
children would have to be brought up suitably, that they 
might adorn the position Providence had evidently prepared 
for them, and " tong " seemed to be a rare article in the mar- 
ket of female labor. 

On the previous day Mrs. Augustus had dilated very 
largely upon this point at a registry-office. She had been di- 
rected, in consequence, to Mrs. Grey — a prize, as she was as- 
sured, in point of appearance and manner. Curiosity was 
strong in Mrs. Brown. Certain allusions and hints about 
Mrs. Grey's antecedents attracted her, and she lost no time 
in looking her up; hence the apparition of the yellow 
chariot. 

But Mrs. Augustus Brown has been left in the doorway to 
introduce herself to Mrs. Grey. As she entered Margaret 
rose, with the true instinct of a lady, and went forwar<i to 
meet her, with a bow to which her visitor did not deign to 
respond. 

Mrs. Augustus Brown flattered herself that she had tact 



24 CHASTE AS W±., PURE AS SNOW. 

enough to put people in their own places and keep them 
there — a d otable piece of wisdom, truly ; the only difficulty 
being as to certain doubts about what is the "own place." 
Were those rightly solved, perhaps a few fine ladies would be 
slightly astonished by finding a level at some unexpected layer 
of the social crust. 

It was not Mrs. Brown's way to trouble herself with 
doubts. She waddled across the room with great satisfaction 
to herself, but in a manner that to the uninitiated could 
hardly have been called dignified, sank down on a chair 
which directly faced Margaret, and began divesting herself 
quietly of some of her wraps. 

Never to appear too eager with any of these people was, in 
the code of Mrs. Augustus, an essential point in their manage- 
ment. When this business had been performed, and she had 
settled herself as comfortably as might be in a not very 
luxurious arm-chair, Mrs, Brown felt for a pair of gold- 
rimmed eye-glasses, adjusted them and looked Margaret over 
from, head to foot. " Bless me, how handsome !" was her 
mental ejaculation: "my word for it, sAe's no good." 

It was not wonderful that this coarse mind found it difficult 
to understand the strange anomaly, for Margaret was one of 
those rarely beautiful beings who seem only made for the 
tenderest handling. Her face might have been a poet's ideal, 
for the traces of suffering and conflict it only too plainly re- 
vealed had removed it far from the meaningless glory of mere 
form and coloring ; and yet she was too young perhaps for 
these to have bereft her of any charm ; they rather endowed 
her pale fair beauty with a certain refinement, an appealing 
pathos, which spoke powerfully to the imagination. 

She possessed a form, too, whose every line was perfect, well 
<ieveloped, yet fragile — womanly, yet full of grace. And the 
deep crimson which Mrs. Brown's studied rudeness had called 
to her face heightened the effect of her beauty. 

She sat before her visitor, her eyes cast down, ner hands 
crossed in her lap, like a fair Greek slave in the barbarian's 
market-place, waiting for the decree of fate. 

It was a relief when Mrs. Augustus Brown began to give 
!ier attention to the ponderous carriage-bag in her hand 



FACE TO FACE WITH THE WORLD. 25 

txune ^f its fastenings, being the latest patents and the height 
uf convenience, were difficult to manage. 

" Your name," she said, hunting for a letter — "ah, here it 
is ! — Mrs. Grey." 

Margaret bowed, shivering slightly. That fatal empha* 
sis. This was the way in which the inquisitions generally 
began. 

Mrs. Augustus here coughed slightly, and looked over her 
gold-rimmed spectacles in a way intended to be severe. 
Alas ! how we deceive ourselves ! The look was only comic. 
" A married woman, I presume ?" 

Margaret bowed again. 

Here Mrs. Brown consulted a set of ivory tablets : " With 
one little girl, I am told, and small income, anxious to make 
enough for her education. Is this correct ?" 

" Perfectly so, madam." 

" A very laudable object : then, Mrs. Grey, you are, I pre- 
sume, a widow ?" 

There was a moment's hesitation. Margaret pressed her 
hand to her side as if she were in pain, and Mrs. Augustus 
eyed her suspiciously : " My question, Mrs. Grey, is a simple 
one." 

" And my answer, madam, can be equally simple. I am 
not a widow." 

"Not a widow!" Mrs. Brown drew back her chair and 
took another long look — one that expressed incredulous hor- 
ror. " Not a widow ! And pray, Mrs. Grey, where is your 
husband?" 

In spite of herself, Margaret smiled feebly, but the smile 
was a nervous one. She looked up and shook her head : 
" I am sorry to say, madam, that I cannot tell." 

"Then," and Mrs. Brown again receded, as if to put as 
much space as possible between herself and this naughty 
person — "then, Mrs. Grey, you are separated from your 
husband ?" 

" I am." 

The answer was spoken in a low, clear voice, very calmly, 
but with a certain intonation of sadness that would have 
struck upon a more sensitive ear. To Mrs. Augustus Brown 
this very quietness of demeanor was in the highest degrcjf 



26 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

brazen. She fluttered her fan, drew herself up to her full 
height, and looked virtuous as a Roman matron (in her owtt 
opinion, be it said parenthetically). 

" You seem strangely forgetful, Mrs. Grey, of the import- 
ance of the position which you seek to fill in my household. 
With the utmost coolness you describe yourself as a woman 
living separated from her husband. Goodness knows why. 
For all I can tell, you may have done something very 
wrong. ' Here Mrs. Brown coughed and hid an imaginary 
blush behind her fan. " And yet," she continued, when the 
blush had been given time to fade, "you wish to take the 
entire charge of little innocents, the eldest of whom is only 
ten, and seven of them. I had my children so quick." 
Here Mrs. Brown lost her thread. To mothers of large 
families these reminiscences are always bewildering. 

Margaret's eyes were looking very weary; she filled up 
the pause : " Perhaps it would be better then to inquire no 
farther. From what you say I fear that I shall scarcely suit 
you." She rose as she spoke. 

Mrs. Brown did not take the hint; she remained where 
she was, rooted to the place by sheer astonishment. For a 
young woman to make so light of such a position as that of 
governess in her family was an unheard-of thing. But Mrs. 
Grey rose in her estimation from that moment. Then she 
was curious. " Sit down again, my dear," she said in a man- 
ner that was intended to be gracious. " Mrs. Townley spoke 
highly of you, and you certainly looh a respectable person. 
I'm not one always to blame my own sex. I believe in these 
aflTairs the men are very often in fault. You may not be 
aware that Mr. Augustus Brown and myself consider salary 
no object, and masters for every branch. Rudiments and 
style, Mrs. Grey, and of course character with children, you 
understand. If it were as my confidential maid, now, I 
might not be so particular; but, unfortunately, the young 
person I have I brought from Paris, and can't get rid of her 
under three months. Not half so handy as I was given to 
understand." 

She fluttered her fan again, and waited for an answer. 
Margaret hesitated. Had she consulted her own inclinations 
she would have refused decidedly to have anything further 



FACE TO FACE WITH THE WORLD 27 

to do witli this vulgar woman. Already she felt by antici- 
pation what the yoke of servitude in such a house as hers 
would be; but Laura — the high salary. The servitude, 
though bitter, might be shortened. It ended in a compromise. 
" Will you be kind enough to allow me a day or two's delay?" 
she asked. " I have friends who will certainly not reftise to 
give me the necessary references ; but I have not seen maay 
of them for some time, and they do not know of my present 
position." 

Mrs. Augustus Brown got up, her dignity gone for the 
time in her anxiety to make this striking-looking person one 
of her household. 

" Yes, yes," she said, " that's the best plan ; I'm sick of 
looking up governesses — one more pasty-looking and un- 
stylish than the other — and I fancy you'll suit. Let me hear 
soon, for the children get more headstrong every day. I'm 
too gentle with them. And then so much in society. Why, 
we have three engagements of an evening sometimes, turning 
night into day, I say. And the servants can no more manage 
them than fly. I shall lose my health, as I tell Mr. Brown, 
if I'm referred to every hour of the day by servants and 
children. Too great a strain, Mrs. Grey. Well, good-bye, 
my dear." 

She waddled off to the yellow chariot, and Margaret was 
left alone — headstrong children, references, explanations, pic- 
tures and unexpected kindness making one great riot in her 
brain. She went to bed early that night, and the events of 
the day grouped themselves together into fantastic dreams. 

In the brain of Mrs. Augustus Brown one thought was 
pre-eminent; it haunted her among the cream-colored cush- 
ions of the yellow chariot, was present in the drawing-room, 
slightly interfering with her mild contemplation of the sleep- 
ing face of a sandy-haired individual on the sofa ; it followed 
her even to the marital couch, mingling with her dreams. 

" She's mighty handsome : I hope to goodness Brown won't 
fall in love with her." 

Brown was calmly unconscious of this want of conjuga'j 
trust. Had he known to what it bore reference, he might 
have been slightly excited, for Mr. Augustus, though his hair 
was sandy and his nose a decided snub, was an admirer of 



28 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

female beauty, and considered himself highly irresistible. 
Mrs. Brown was totally unaware of this fact. 

"After years of life together" they were, on this point at 
least, " strangers yet." 

Sentimental young ladies, who croon over these pathetic 
words, thinking perhaps, with an approach to soft melan- 
choly, of the desolation reserved for themselves in the future, 
when, their finest feelings unappreciated, they must shut 
themselves up in mystery, might learn a lesson from Mr. and 
Mrs. Augustus. 

To be " strangers yet " on some points with that nearest and 
dearest, the unappreciative husband of the future, may poS" 
eibly be anducive to harmony rather than desolation. 



CHAPTER IV. 

MORNING THOUGHTS— A RESOLVE TAKEN. 

Soul of our souls and safeguard of the world, 
Sustain — Thou only canst — the sick of heart ! 
Restore their languid spirits, and recall 
Their lost affections unto Thee and Thine. 

Makgaeet awoke early the next morning. It was a sad 
waking. For the first moment she could have wished to 
shut her eyes again, never to open them more in this world. 
Life looked so blank. And what wonder ? 

However brave the spirit, it must be affected by its sur- 
roundings, and to open one's eyes in a stifling room, with 
the consciousness that the raised blind will show nothing but 
a dingy yard, and beyond and on every side of it deserts of 
dingy yards, the yards shut in by black-looking houses, in all 
of which the like stifling rooms may reasonably be expected 
to be found, is, to say the least of it, disheartening. 

Margaret's troubles in the little cottage by the seaside, cf 
which she fondly thought as home, had not been less ; but 
there was something in the wide breadths of sea, in its fresh 
curling waves and in the grand expanse of sky to soothe the 
dull aching of heart and brain, to give scope to the great 



MORNING THOUGHTS. 29 

doctrine of possibilities, and freedom to dreams that some- 
times appeared wild and unreal. 

Here it was different. In the narrowness of wall and 
enclosure life itself was narrowed down till it seemed nothing 
but a dreary blank of good ; in the dull monotony of wood 
and brick what had been melancholy became bitterness, 
what had been prayers for help and guidance became one 
passionate outcry against Providence — one bitter complaint 
against what the tortured heart too often calls cruel fate. 

Young curates are fond of preaching about resignation, 
notifying to their aged friends the desirability of persevering 
to the end. I think if ever they come to feel this, that Fate 
and all her myrmidons are against them, that life is cruel 
beyond measure, that even faith itself can find no standing- 
point, they will speak less on this strange, sad theme ; but 
when the victory has been won, when fate and necessity have 
taken a true place for them in the economy of nature, what 
they say will be worth far more. 

The first discouragement gone by, Margaret felt that she 
must act, and then came the consciousness that something 
very disagreeable was before her. She had promised Mrs. 
Brown to set herself right with her as far as character was 
concerned, and for this it would be necessary to give refer- 
ences. 

A new trouble, and, strange to say, un thought of before. 
Margaret was little used to the ways of the world : she had 
hitherto cherished a vague notion that to present herself 
would be sufficient for the attainment of her object. That 
she was a lady she imagined (and in this she was not mis- 
taken) could be seen at a glance. 

That a lady's character should be looked into like a ser- 
vant's had not entered into her mind as a necessaiy part of 
that to which those who seek for employment must subject 
themselves. And yet her common sense told her, as she 
thought it all over in the gray of early morning, that this 
was perfectly right, and only what she ought to have ex- 
pected. 

The necessity might certainly have been more delicately 
revealed than by Mrs. Augustus Brown ; but Margaret, in 
her morning review of ways and means, thoroughly recog- 



30 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

nizftd the justice of the demand. To answer it was none the 
less a great diflSculty to one of her nature. The long sepa- 
ration from all her friends, who before and after her marriage 
had been very numerous ; the solitary nature of her life dur- 
ing the last four years ; above all, that cloud, barely acknow- 
ledged even to herself, which rested on her fair fame (she 
could not tell if it had affected her in the opinion of her 
former world, if many-tongued Rumor had magnified it;, — 
all these things made her task a very diflScult one, and as she 
thought she felt inclined to give up the struggle, to return to 
her lonely lot and do her best for her child herself. 

She had almost come to this conclusion, even the note 
refusing Mrs. Brown's magnanimous offer was written in her 
mind, when suddenly an idea flitted across her brain which 
caused her to hesitate. The thought was of one who in all 
probability would stand her friend, whose word was worth 
Bomething, and who knew enough of the circumstances of 
her history to render it unnecessary for her to enter into 
painfiil details. 

The friend was a lawyer, the man who managed her affairs. 
He was well known to her, not so much personally as in a 
business capacity, and she felt great confidence in his friend- 
liness and judgment. Then she knew that he held a high 
position, especially in the religious world. Before she rose 
she had decided at least to consult Mr. Robinson. 

If he thought his reference would be suflacient guarantee 
of respectability to ensure her an entrance into the carefully 
guarded fold of Mrs. Augustus Brown, she would try to 
obtain the position; if not, she would make no further effcrL 



FOUND— A FRIEND. 31 

CHAPTER V. 

FOUND— A FRIEND. 

Most delicately hour by hour 
He canvassed human mysteries, 
And trod on silk, as if the winds 
Blew his own praises in his eyes. 
And stood aloof from other minds 
In impotence of fancied power. 

Mr. Robinson was a man whom women trusted almost 
instinctively, for, in the first place, he was tall and well made, 
possessing the advantage of strong, square shoulders and 
straight, capable-looking legs. 

A rogue, especially in the lawyer world, is apt to be 
thought of as a man of small type, with sharp features, 
sallow complexion and little, piercing eyes. 

Mr. Robinson was florid in complexion, large and muscular 
in type, fair and frank in manner. He had a way of speak- 
ing about business as if everything he did might, with no 
drawback to himself, remain open for the inspection of men 
and angels ; perhaps best of all, at least so far as ladies and 
clergymen were concerned, was the pleasing habit he pos- 
sessed of throwing religion into everything: testamentary 
dispositions, settlements, conveyancing, chancery suits, all 
could be conveniently ticketed with a text, and laid away in 
the capacious recesses of Mr. Robinson's memory, to be 
brought out on some suitable occasion as notable proofs of 
his own high position in the favor of Providence. 

Mr. Robinson was married. He had thought it incumbent 
on him to leave progeny on the earth when, to use hia 
lightly-spoken phrase, "himself should be gathered to his 
fathers." That he possessed, or had once possessed, a father, 
was a self-evident fact. With regard to the plural number 
some might be tempted to ejaculate, "The fathers ! where are 
they ?" but these were skeptical individuals, verging no doubt 
on infidelity, for Mr. Robinson considered faith a cardinal 
virtue, and possessed a genealogical tree which threw its 
branches far and wide, and traced back to unknown antiquity. 



32 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

or at least to William the Conqueror and Rollo the Norman, 
the ancestors of the Robinson family, and of those who had 
been so happy as to form any connection with it. 

This famous specimen of art hung up in Mr. Robinson's 
oflBce, and was frequently exhibited in all its fulness of detail 
to lady-clients. They were often obliging enough to interest 
themselves specially in the lowest branch, where Mr. Robin- 
son had VTitten in a small clear hand-writing the names of 
six boys, happy fruit of wedlock, destined no doubt to be il- 
lustrious, and — not elevate ; that would scarcely be possible, 
considering their antecedents, but — preserve the character of 
the Robinson family and honor its traditions. 

" In the mean time," Mr. Robinson would say, opening the 
account-book, settlement or will which his lady-client had 
come to consult, and laughing out a clear hearty laugh which 
told of no arribre-pensee, " I keep the young beggars in good 
order." 

Mr, Robinson was always very busy. If clients, ladies 
principally, did not happen to be with him during the whole 
moi'uing, he had a vast arrear of letters to finish. He there- 
fore possessed a large gloomy-looking room, where applicants 
for the favor of admission to a private interview genera^ ^ • 
waited until he could be disengaged. 

It was into this room that Margaret was shown when, her 
determination having outlasted dressing and breakfast, sb 
presented herself to ask if she might see Mr. Robinson. 

The clerk said that a gentleman was with Mr. Robinson, 
but no doubt he would be disengaged presently. He took n-* 
her card, and Margaret sat down in the waiting-room, rath 
glad of the opportunity afforded her of collecting her 
thoughts, and considering how she could open the subje • 
for, now that she was actually bound on the errand ;^ 
asking a guarantee of respectability from the man she had 
hitherto looked upon simply as the person who sent he: 
money and transacted her business, it seemed rather harder 
than she had imagined. 

She had a longer time for preparation than she could have: 
desired. Mr. Robinson, as he afterward informed her, wf » 
literally overwhelmed with work. 

He rose when she entered, set a chair for her, then resumed 



■If 



FOUND— A FRIEND. 33 

his own. His manner was nonchalant, even, some might have 
said, unpolished in its freedom, as he expressed his pleasure at 
seeing Mrs. Grey, and his hope that nothing unpleasant had 
brought her so far from home. 

Mr. Robinson was much commended for his easy natural 
aaatiners, but on this occasion, as on a few others, an acute 
oljserver might have detected something of nervousness un- 
derlying his expansive gestures. 

When he had exhausted his vocabulary, Mrs. Grey spoka 
Lifting her veil, she fixed her soft brown eyes on Mr. Robin- 
son's face. " I have come to consult you," she said. 

"Most happy, I am sure," he replied briskly — "any as- 
sistance in my power. It was an unfortunate business. 
Happily, we secured enough for maintenance." 

" You allude to my losses, Mr. Robinson. I am, unfor- 
tunately, no woman of business, so I have scarcely understood 
how it comes that my income is so diminished ; but I assure 
you that I have full confidence in your judgment. Perhaps, as 
I have come, you will be able to explain these matters to me." 

"And delighted," he answered with some eagerness; "it is 
one of my peculiar crotchets in business to keep all my clients 
"'/r^y conversant with their own afiairs. Others act differently, 
but ' Do unto others,' you know, is one of my chief rules. I 
live by rule, Mrs. Grey — the highest of all rules, I hope. See 
?ire, now," and he laid his hand on a pile of account-books, 
this is a case in point. Mrs. Herbert, a widow, large estates, 
before consulting me scarcely knew what she possessed ; now 
''^^ks regularly over the books, spends an hour here once a 
..fyhth. Danvers, again : young lady about to be married, 
sent for me to draw up the settlement. ' You know all about 

Mr. Robinson,' she said ; ' draw it up as you like.' * Ex- 

ioe'me, Miss Danvers,' said I. 'I should prefer you to use 

Mur own judgment in the matter.' She has done so, and in 

iEe' course of conversation on the subject has made some very 

sensible suggestions." 

Mr. Robinson did not say to how many different interviews 
the sensible suggestions had given rise; certainly, however, 
V had been no loser by them. 

" I could quote hundreds of instances, all tending the same 
way," he continued. 
3 



34 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS S^'OW. 

l*oor Margaret shook her head : " I am afraid I should 
find it very difficult to understand." 

" Not at all, not at all. Look here, now. What are you 
anxious to know ? I venture to say I'll make it clear to you 
before you leave this room." 

Margaret smiled. This man's frankness pleased her. His 
manner, though a little unpolished, was, she thought, anything 
but displeasing ; then he seemed to understand business thor- 
oughly. Perhaps he would show that, after all, her affaii's 
were not so desperate as they seemed. 

" I am first anxious to know what you mean by writing 
to me that one of the mortgages has turned out badly," she 
said. 

" Easy to explain," he answered, with a self-satisfied smile. 
" Only, perhaps, by the bye, I shall have to begin with the 
A B C, as one may say, and acquaint you with the nature of 
a mortgage." 

" If you please, Mr. Robinson ; I am afraid I am ignorant 
even to that extent." 

" So much the better, Mrs. Grey, so much the better : * A 
little knowledge' — you know the proverb. Ladies take up 
giich ideas when they know, as they imagine, something of 
business ! I had far rather deal with total ignorance on these 
points; but don't be discouraged. We must begin at the 
very beginning. Forsaking business terms altogether for the 
moment, I will, if you please, put this to you simply. You 
take me, Mrs. Grey ?" He smiled with a frankness that was 
charming to behold. " Do at Rome as Rome does. With 
ladies talk of business as they are able to understand." 

Mrs. Grey smiled her acquiescence. 

" Agreed," cried the lawyer efiiisively. " Well, then, to 
work. Say now, by way of illustration" — he took a pencil 
aa he spoke and drew a line, writing A at the one end, B at 
the other and C in the centre — " A represents a person who 
has a landed estate, houses, what not ; B has no landed prop- 
erty, but the value of A's estate in money. B wants to put 
out his money in some safe way ; A, who does not care to sell 
his property, wants money ; steps in C, the intermediate per- 
son — a lawyer, we shall say — known to both parties. Ho 
negotiates between them, finally arranging for B to lend hv 



FOUND— A FRIEND. 35 

maney to A on the security of A's property. A deed of 
mortgage is then drawn up, which makes the agreement bind* 
ing. A has B's money, pays a half-yearly interest, and if, 
after a six months' notice, the sum originally lent is not forth- 
coming, A's property may be sold to make good the default 
Do you follow me, Mrs. Grey?" 

" Perfectly, Mr. Robinson. You have made clear to mo 
what I never understood before; but under these circum- 
stances I cannot see how my money was actually lost. The 
property would always be there." 

" True, Mrs. Grey." Mr. Robinson gave a somewhat pecu- 
liar smile. " I am glad to see that you understand me so 
thoroughly ; your suggestion is in the highest degree practi- 
cal ; there is one consideration, however, which we have not 
taken into account. Land, unfortunately, depreciates in 
value, so that at times it would be highly dangerous to the 
interests of the mortgagee to press a sale. At other times 
the title of the mortgagor is not perfectly clear. All these 
things should be carefully looked into beforehand. In your 
case everything was done, but one cannot be always certain. 
However, excuse me for correcting your slight inaccuracy. 
I think I never said that this sum of money was lost. I like 
to be perfectly certain on these points. Perhaps you can 
refer to the passage in my letter in which I announced this 
unfortunate business." 

He looked at her with some anxiety — nervousness perhaps 
an acute observer might have said, but Margaret was not an 
acute observer. 

She smiled and shook her head : " Quite impossible, Mr. 
Robinson. I never keep my letters, especially business ones. 
I have been told that this habit is a bad one ; but a quoi bon f 
It is really too much trouble." 

The lawyer showed his teeth. " A lady's view of matters," 
he said briskly ; " and, after all, full of common sense. Why 
should you trouble yourself? However, to return d nos 
moutongs, as the French would say" (Mr. Robinson had 
spent a year in a French school, and considered himself a 
perfect master of the language), " I am happy to say that 
your affairs are likely to take a favorable turn. I have a 
hold on the fellow for another little matter ; indeed, I mar 



36 CHASTE AH ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Bay that he is completely in my power. With your per- 
mission I will open proceedings against him." 

Mr. Robinson always spoke the truth — at least, as some one 
said in the House of Commons lately, " what he thought the 
truth." But, though his affairs were open to the inspection 
of men and angels, he did not consider mental reservation a 
sin, even where it would seriously affect the character of a 
truth which he had ingenuously stated. He guarded him- 
self from telling Mrs. Grey that the other little business was 
a large sum owed to himself by Mrs. Grey's debtor, and that 
he was fully determined to screw this out of him before an- 
other debt should be paid. 

The knowledge of want or of something approaching it — 
want rather of the refinements of life than of its necessities — 
had made Margaret look with far more interest on money 
than she had ever done before. Formerly, it had been a cer- 
tain something that always came at the right moment — for 
Mr. Robinson was as regular as clockwork in the transaction 
of his business — and that came in amounts amply sufficient 
to meet every need. What wonder that she thought little of 
how it came, and was tolerably lavish in its expenditure ? 

Now, everything was changed. Money meant education 
for Laura, the refinements and amenities of life for herself ; 
above all, independence. The want of it meant servitude, 
drudgery, perhaps even the squalor of poverty. But she was 
not sufficiently acquainted with business to imagine that some 
one might be to blame for the failing mortgage — that it could 
be possible to call her solicitor to account. 

She trusted Mr. Robinson implicitly. For was he not a 
good man ? Righteous overmuch, some people said ; one who 
conducted his business in an open, off-hand kind of way, 
which savored more of the harmlessness of the dove than of 
the wisdom of the serpent? Did not his frank smile and 
cheerful greeting speak of a quiet conscience? Did not 
worthy people of all denominations consult him in the 
management of their affairs ? 

Margaret could not have suspected Mr. Robinson, and his 
cheerful way of suggesting proceedings and their mysterious 
effect filled her with new hope. She looked up eagerly: 
" Oh, Mr, Robinson, then you really think there is hope ?" 



FOUND- A FRIEND. 37 

" My dear lady," he answered in his peculiarly lively way, 
*• I have not the smallest doubt of it. Be content, for the 
tune being, with your small income, and, take my word for 
it, before six months have passed over our heads we shall (by 
the Divine assistance — of course, we must never forget that, 
Mrs. Grey) be able to pay back into your account the larger 
part, if not all, of the sum in question." 

The tears filled Margaret's eyes. Had she grown so very 
mercenary, then ? I scarcely think so. Her delight was that 
of the escaped captive. There would be no necessity now to 
prosecute her painful search for employment. The yoke that 
already, by anticipation, was galling her might be thrown 
off with a clear conscience. Mr. Robinson's word meant 
more than that of most people, and he gave six months as 
the duration of her penury. During that time her little 
daughter would scarcely require more instruction than she 
could give ; they had still sufficient to enable them to live 
quietly ; and even should she be a loser to some extent, there 
would no doubt be sufficient left for Laura's education. If 
not, it would be time enough then to think of ways and 
means. 

She gave a sigh of intense relief, then looked up, smiling 
through a mist of gathering tears : " I am very foolish, Mr. 
Robinson, but your words have taken such a load from my 
mind ! I had come here to-day to consult you about taking 
a situation as governess. They Avanted — that is, I mean," 
she blushed as she spoke, "a reference, you know, was neces- 
sary, so I came to you about it." 

" To give you a reference," replied he, with a smile that 
made Margaret wince, there was so much assurance in its 
cordiality. "You could not have come to a better person. 
My connection is very large, and, I may say without unduly 
boasting (these earthly gifts must all be looked upon as 
coming from above), where the name of Robinson is knoAvn 
it is respected. A curious proof of this occurred yesterday." 
Here Mr. Robinson was interrupted by one of his clerks, who 

brought up the intimation that Lord was waiting to see 

him. "Say I am with a lady-client; beg his lordship to 
wait a few moments." Then, as the clerk went down with 
tlie message, " You see," he continued, turning to Mrs. Grey, 



38 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

" all my clients stand on the same footing. If the prince of 
Wales came here to consult me on business-matters, I should 
request him to wait his turn. But as we need not keep any 
one unnecessarily in suspense, my little anecdote must be 
narrated on another occasion. Komarkable circumstancOj 
too — fresh proof, if that were needed, of the existence of an 
overruling Providence." 

Margaret rose from her seat, scarcely perhaps so impressed 
as she might have been with the noble impartiality of her 
Bolicitor. 

"One moment," he said, drawing out his cheque-book. 
Now, Mr. Kobinson loved his cheque-book. It was his scep- 
tre, the insignia of his power. He always produced it with a 
certain consciousness of superiority, and made over the trifling 
pieces of paper which his name had rendered valuable as if 
they had been princely gifts. 

" While this affair is pending," he continued pompously, 
" you are no doubt somewhat straitened. I shall be glad to 
relieve you from undue embarrassment. I will write out a 
cheque for twenty pounds. And you may draw upon me 
from time to time — always in moderation, of course." 

A blush dyed Margaret's cheek. For a moment she felt 
disinclined to put herself under any obligation to this man, 
whose style of offering assistance was not very palatable to 
her high spirits. Then she remembered that this was busi- 
ness — a thing, no doubt, done every day. And his manner — 
Well, it was simply that of a man not quite accustomed to 
polite society. It arose from ignorance, and was a proof, if 
any were needed, of his honesty. His worst faults lay evi- 
dently on the surfe.ce, covering over, as in many cases, a good 
and noble nature. 

These, allow me to say, were Margaret's reflections j it does 
not, therefore, follow that they were absolutely correct 
Women have a trick of rushing to conclusions. A man 
weighs and balances, sets this quality against that, thinks out 
the effect of one upon the other, and in many cases comes to 
a conclusion slowly and with difficulty. It is well. He is 
not so often deceived. A woman has generally a precon- 
ceived idea, a prejudice for or against. This being so, it is 
m.pre than natural that some expression of countenance, some 



THE YOUNG HEIR. 39 

tone of voice, some trick of manner, should fall in with her 
preformed judgment, and cause, in the shortest time imagin* 
able, a conclusion which scarcely anything will shake. She 
believes even against proof self-evident to the rest of the 
world. This, no doubt, is partly the reason why helpless, 
lonely women are so often cheated and robbed. 

Margaret was in this position. I do not mean to say that 
she had been cheated and robbed. Her position was that of 
full confidence in the man who transacted her business. She 
had thought of him as a friend : she had found him frank 
and honest, no suspicion of the legal rogue in his face or 
manner. Therefore she came to this conclusion : Mr. Robins 
son was her friend, he looked after her interests very care- 
fully, he would set her affairs right if any one could. This 
being so, what mattered a little want of polish ? She could 
very well afford to dispense with it. 

"Thank you," she said as Mr. Robinson handed her the 
cheque ; " I cannot deny that this will be of present assistance 
to me." 

Mr. Robinson then rose in his turn, shook his fair client's 
hand with perhaps more than necessary empressement, and 
escorted her to the door. 



CHAPTER VL 

THE YOUNG HEIR 

But the ground. 
Of all great thoughts is sadness. 

Arthur Forrest was certainly developing a taste for 
art — not at all a bad taste, his friends said one to the other, 
for a young man who had amply sufficient to live upon. It 
would fill up his time, keep him from the dangers of idleness, 
give him, in fact, something to think about. For art could 
easily be pursued in a most gentlemanlike manner. A per. 
son who fills the position, not of an artist indeed, but of an 
intelligent patron of the fine arts, is not only a useful mem- 
ber of society, but one who is held in some estimation by the 
world. 



iO CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

There were mauy who took a very close interest in the 
affairs of young Arthur Forrest, for he was, or would be in a 
few weeks — that was all the period that divided him from hia 
majority — a young man of property. Then he was an 
orphan. What more natural than that tender, sympathetic 
young ladies and pious, well-conducted matrons should wat^h 
his proceedings with affectionate interest, and strive to do 
what lay within their power to save him from the evil influ- 
ences which were popularly supposed to be immediately sur- 
rounding him ? 

Unfortunately for the pious matrons and sympathetic 
young ladies, Arthur was well taken care of. 

Mrs. Churchill was his aunt. She had tended him in his 
infancy, as she often said pathetically to a circle of admirers ; 
she had the first claim on his love and gratitude. The grati- 
tude Mrs. Churchill was anxious to keep as her inalienable 
riglit in Arthur : the love she had already passed on to her 
daughter and representative, pretty Adele. 

And hitherto Arthur had shown himself dutifully content 
with the arrangement. He did not think much of girls as a 
class, and certainly AdSle was as good a specimen of them as 
he bad ever met. Then he was accustomed to her; she gen- 
erally knew how to keep him amused ; she was pretty, lively 
and well dressed. Till Arthur met Margaret he had never 
admired a shabby person. In fact, he was languidly grateful 
to Aunt Ellen and the Fates for having arranged matters so 
x3omfortably, because matters were actually arranged. 

Mrs. Churchill knew the world she lived in too well to 
iillow such a thing as a tacit understanding between the 
cousins, which a young man's whim could break through in a 
moment. She did not intend that her daughter's first youth 
■and beauty should be spent in a devotion which was destined 
to meet with no adequate return. Ad^le was rich and pretty 
— she would have no difficulty in meeting with a suitable 
partner ; only to keep Arthur and his money in the family 
was desirable. Besides, ho was young ; he would make an 
amenable son-in-law ; then he was already accustomed to the 
yoke — no small point this, in Mrs. Churchill's estimation. 

WTien, therefore, Adele had reached the age of eighteen 
9.nd Arthur that of twenty — events which had happened 



THE YOUNO HEIR. 41 

almost simultaneously shortly before my story opens — Mrs. 
Churchill, as she fondly hoped and believed, put the finishing 
stroke to the edifice she had been forming. It had been her 
aim, during the few years that had passed since Arthur had 
emerged into young manhood, to make her house the most 
agreeable place in the world to him, and in this she had been 
eminently successful. Ad^le had ably assisted her, for she, 
poor child ! had always cherished afiection for her handsome 
cousin — an afiection which the dawn of womanhood and her 
mother's fostering infiuence ripened without much difficulty 
into a tenderer feeling. 

She found it not easy, then, when wise eighteen had arrived, 
to understand her mother's tactics, for Arthur the welcome 
guest began from that date to be less warmly received, and 
obstacles were thrown in the way of their meetings, which had 
been so delightfully frequent and unembarrassed. They 
came notably from Mrs. Churchill, and yet her personal 
afiection for her nephew seemed only to have increased ; there 
was a tinge of gentle regret in her manner even while she 
appeared to be sending him from them. 

It was almost more inexplicable to Arthur than to Ad^l^ 
and at last he could bear it no longer. 

With the love of universal popularity so common to his 
age, he hated the idea of being in his relative's bad graces ; 
besides, the charms of his cousin's society increased tenfold in 
his imagination as difficulties cropped up to interfere with his 
quiet enjoyment of them. 

" By Jove !" he said to himself in the course of a cigar- 
fed meditation, "I must have it out with Aunt Ellen at 
once." 

That was a memorable moment in his history. With the 
impulsiveness of youth he extinguished his cigar and repaired 
in haste to Mrs. Churchill's handsome residence. He founi 
her alone in her drawing-room, pensive but loftily kind, and 
Boon extracted from her what she would so much rather have 
kept to herself — that she was acting in Ad^le's interests ; the 
dear girl was impressionable, the relationship dangerous; 
much as she loved her nephew, she must not forget that a 
mother's first duty was to watch over her child ; and much 
more of a like nature, to all of which Arthur listened duti* 



42 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

folly. Of course he was no match for his aunt ; before the 
evening of that day had arrived he occupied the position of 
an accepted lover, blessed by a happy parent, and possessed 
what perhaps, on some future day, he might possibly be led 
to imagine the dear-bought privilege of a free entree into 
Aunt Ellen's house. Since then matters had progressed satis- 
factorily, as far as Mrs. Churchill was concerned, though 
AdSle, who took almost a motherly interest in her lover and 
future husband, was inclined to lament the absolute aimless- 
ness of his life. 

Women, generally speaking, have a quicker mental growth 
than men. The mind of a girl of eighteen is in many cases 
more mature than that of a man of twenty. Arthur had 
passed his twenty years without much thought beyond him- 
self. AdSle, with the like luxurious surroundings, had 
already begun to look past herself — to feel that there was a 
world of which she knew nothing, but with which, neverthe- 
less, she was very closely connected — a world of want and 
suffering, where wrong was too often triumphant. 

She was fond of reading. Perhaps some of these thoughts 
had crept in through the medium of poet and historian. For 
Ad^le's insight told her that there were many higher and 
nobler lives for a man and woman to lead than that of self- 
pleasing. She sometimes longed to be a man, that she might 
do something worth doing in a world that wanted the active 
and the strong. But the little she could do she did, and had 
she known how many blessed her for her gentle words and 
timely aid, she might have been less desponding about a 
woman's ability to take some place in the world. 

For the rest she looked to Arthur, the hero of her imagi- 
nation. Poor Adele ! Her hero did not quite see as she did 
the necessity for exertion. He took life languidly, and could 
not conceive why people should excite themselves about what 
did not concern them ; at least this was what he always said 
when she tried to instill into him some of her ideas about 
human wrongs and human service. 

But Ad^le did not despair; she had a woman's supreme 
feith in "the to- come." Something would arouse Arthur's 
dormant energies and bring out the latent fire of his r,atu:r. 

Li the mean time she, with the rest of his wot Id, wa.s 



THE YOUNG HEIR. 43 

pleaded to notice his growing interest in the fine arts, though 
she, wiser than they, felt inclined to put down his constant 
haunting of the picture-galleries to a growing restlessness that 
meant uneasiness with the aimless life of self-gratification he 
was lea,ding and a stretching-out after something higher. 

And Addle was partially right. Arthur was changed. 
Perhaps it was more the sadness than the beauty of that fair 
woman's face which haunted him so strangely, mingling with 
all his thoughts a certain self-reproach which he found it very 
difficult to understand. 

It may have been that in the pale, calm face, resolute in 
endurance, he saw for one moment what was going on for ever 
around him ; he read the mystic law of nature — sacrifice of 
self For life is glad; where gladness is not life may be 
borne, but not loved or rejoiced in, and in the calm surrender 
of life's gladness to the call of life's necessity there is a sur- 
render of life itself, the most beautiful part of life. 

Something of this he had seen in Margaret's pale face. A 
joy put away, surrendered, a burden taken up and patiently 
borne. This it was that filled his mind when the first im- 
pression of her loveliness had in a manner passed. He saw 
the suffering, and beside the suffering he saw himself, self- 
indulgent, careless, free of hand, light of spirit, with no 
thought, in a general way, beyond the enjoyment of the 
present hour. 

Often before Arthur had expressed something of this: 
lolling in a luxurious arm-chair with his feet on the fender, 
while Addle amused him by a song or read to him something 
that had been charming her, he would say with a comfort- 
able sigh, "What a good-for-nothing sort of fellow I am, 
Addle !" 

But then he had scarcely felt it, or if he had it had been " 
only with a kind of impression that the good-for-nothingnesa 
3at elegantly on the shoulders of a young man of property. 

Clever Mrs. Churchill rather encouraged the impression. 
Young men with ideas are apt to become unmanageable, and 
she was earnestly desirous of keeping Arthur in her invisible 
leading-strings. 

But this time Arthur felt it. There was suffering, sorrow, 
wrong in the world ; he was doing nothing but vegetate on its 



4i CHASTE AS WE, PURE AS SNOW. 

sui face, keeping his comforts, his gladness, his fresh young 
life for his own selfish gratification. And the worst of it aK 
was that he did not see a way out of it. In the days of 
chivalry young knights went out armed to fight for defenceless 
women and redress human wrongs. Arthur felt sure that his 
mysterious lady had been in some way cruelly wronged, and 
he longed to constitute himself her protector and knight ; but 
in the first place she had persistently denied herself to him ; 
in the second place her wrongs might prove to be such as he 
would find himself utterly unable to redress. 

He was bound to Addle, and if it had not been so he felt 
instinctively that he was scarcely a suitable husband for the 
beautiful widow. (Arthur had made up his mind that 
Margaret was a widow.) Under such circumstances, even if 
so minor an evil as poverty were her trouble, there would be 
a certain incongruity in ofiering her half his fortune, and she 
would probably resent such a step. He could oflTer it anony- 
mously, but even in such case it would be quite possible that 
she might thi'nk it right to decline acceptance, and Mrs. 
Churchill would reasonably consider Addle and any children 
she might have wronged by the proceeding. Arthur, in fact, 
had wandered into a maze whence there really seemed to be 
no exit. His only hope was to see Margaret again. One 
more glimpse of her fair face might do more toward unravel- 
ling the mystery than hours of lonely pondering. This, then, 
it was, rather more than love of art, that led him to haunt the 
picture-galleries, and especially the one where he had first 
seen her. 

But if it were this that led him, something else kept him. 
Wandering hither and thither by these trophies of mind, with 
this new earnestness in his spirit, he began to feel in them a 
power unsuspected in his former languid visits. They repre- 
sented work, conflict, triumph. Each picture had its history, 
into each were wrought the mingled threads of human experi- 
ence. In the dim glory that shone from one or two of these 
transcripts of Nature Arthur read the struggle of soul to ex- 
press itself worthily, and his young spirit was stirred within 
him. 

In the loving detail, all beautiful of its kind, with which 
the artist surrounded the fair queen of his homage, he saw 



A CUNNING TEMPTER. 45 

the earnestness of genius, and bowing his head he worshipped 
in the great temple of Humanity. 

The young man's thoughts began to run, not on his own 
elegance and superiority, but on the great problems of 
Nature and Art. Self was removed from its lofty pedestal. 
What the fair woman's face had begun human genius carried 
on. Arthur Forrest was changed. 



CHAPTER VII. 

A CUNNING TEMPTER. 

Thou art woman ; 
And that is saying the best and worst of thee. 

Marg^eet's business in Loudon was over. The more she 
thought about her visit to Mr. Robinson, the more certain she 
felt that her affairs were in capable hands, and that her 
money difficulties would very soon disappear. 

She wrote, therefore, to Mrs. Augustus Brown, declining 
the honor of becoming a member of her household. 

That lady was considerably annoyed at first. Afterward 
she consoled herself by the reflection that her own presence 
of mind had saved her sweet innocents from a terrible dan- 
ger. It was only too evident, she remarked to the passive 
Brown, that Mrs. Grey's antecedents would not bear looking 
Into. It wa.? a fresh instance of the danger to which the in- 
experienced were subjected in London. Had she not been 
very watchful she might have been misguided by that woman's 
remarkable appearance. 

Mr. Augustus pricked up his ears at this. 

"In what way was she remarkable, my love?" he blandly 
inquired. 

To which civil question Mrs. Brown, recalling her former 
uneasiness, only replied by shaking her fat shoulders and 
descanting volubly on the fruitful theme of male curiosity. 

It is highly probable that Margaret had a happy escape, 
in spite of " salary no object, and masters for every branch." 

As soon as the letter had been despatched she began to 



46 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

think of home and Laura, and to lay her plans for return. 
But, first, various articles of wearing apparel would have to 
be procured, for Margaret was not at all fond of shabbiness 
for its own sake, and her little girl's wardrobe was, she knew, 
sadly in need of replenishment. 

So she put off her departure for a day or two, that thia 
Business, so much more pleasing than what had hitherto been 
occupying her, might be satisfactorily accomplished. Be- 
tween shopping and needlewomen the next few days passed 
by with considerable rapidity and far more brightness of 
spirit ; and then Margaret thought that before leaving Lon- 
don she might pay a farewell visit to the pictures, and, 
especially, to the one which had so powerfully attracted her. 

Dressing herself with far more care than on the previous 
occasion — for the black stuff was replaced by silk, and over 
it the rich Indian scarf, for which Margaret seemed to 
cherish a peculiar affection, looked more in keeping — she 
started on a bright afternoon in an omnibus that took her to 
the very door of the Exhibition. 

For this once Margaret wished to enjoy without fatigue. 
And she certainly did enjoy. Coming from the brightness 
and life of the May day into the cool shade of the galleries 
(it was too early in the day for the fashionable crowd), with 
the wealth of coloring and suggestive beauty on every side, 
nothing to do but to wander from one gem of art to the 
other, — all this was really delightful to Margaret. It was 
easy work at first, but as the day wore on the usual crowds 
began to pour into the galleries, and moving about became 
somewhat more diflScult. 

Margaret was there to see the pictures and refresh herself 
with their beauty. She did not, therefore, pay much atten- 
tion to the many who were coming and going, and was in 
consequence perfectly unconscious of the notice she herself 
attracted ; for many who caught a glimpse of her fair face 
in passing turned instinctively and looked again. There was 
one who admired her specially. 

He was a little sandy-haired individual who had been 
wandering about rather disconsolately with his wife. Having 
at last been able to escort her to a seat, he was venturing to 
look round when he caught sight of Margaret Grey. It was 



A CUNNING TEMPTER. 47 

a happy moment. She was looking up at one of Millais' 
suggestive pieces ; the full appreciation of its meaning gave 
a certain spirituality to her face, and her lips were parted 
in a smile of calm enjoyment. 

He was struck dumb with astonishment. Had it not been 
for the presence of his wife and a snub-nosed olive-branch he 
would have improved the occasion by trying to find out 
something about this new beauty. 

As it was, he turned away his eyes from beholding vanity, 
and looked down on the opposite virtue, his wife, whose eyes, 
strange to say, were beholding vanity too. With the assist- 
ance of her eye-glasses they were scanning the object that 
had previously attracted the attention of her lord. 

The heart of the sandy-haired throbbed with unusual ex- 
citement, but (oh the treachery of the male sex !) he smothered 
excitement under an appearance of utter indifierence. 

" Do you know that lady, my love ?" he inquired in his 
blandest tones. 

" Lady, indeed !" replied Mrs. Brown, for the moment for- 
getting her prudence in her indignation. " It's Mrs. Grey, 
who was to have been my children's governess, Mr. Brown. 
Now I hope you see !" 

Mr. Augustus did not precisely see, but for the sake of 
peace and quietness he professed to be very much enlight- 
ened, and proceeded with a man's temerity to make some 
other trifling observation about the pseudo-governess. 

He met with a smart rebuke for his pains, and then Mrs. 
Brown feeling no doubt that the locality was dangerous, re- 
quested that her carriage should be found. 

When the unhappy Brown returned dutifully to escort her 
to where it was in waiting for its dainty burden the vision of 
female loveliness had vanished, and though he paid moie 
visits to the Exhibition of the Royal Academy than he had 
ever done before, the vision never returned. Alas, the cruelty 
of human nature as exemplified by watchful wives ! 

Margaret did not know what mischief she was causing. 
She had found her way to the little sea-piece which had 
already spoken so powerfully to her imagination. And there 
it was that at last Arthur Forrest's eyes were gladdened once 
iDore with a sight of the face that had haunted him. 



48 CHASTE AS ICE, PUBE"AS SNOW. 

He was standing near the entrance of the room, lost in the 
crowd, which was every moment increasing, when she passed 
by him so closely that her silk dress touched him. He had 
been watching for her daily, but at the fateful moment her 
appearance took him by surprise. 

He had formed plans without number for addressing hei-, 
ipithout showing himself obtrusive or inquisitive. The very 
words of polite inquiry after her health, the manner in which, 
by courtesy and chivalrous deference, all her fears would be 
set at rest, had been rehearsed again and again in colloquy 
between himself and a Margaret evoked by his dream ; but 
when the moment had come, when the real Margaret was 
near, all his plans vanished like mists before the sun — he was 
bashful and timid as a young debutante. Instead of emerg- 
ing from the crowd which seemed to swallow up his identity 
and claiming acquaintance with her, he drew farther back 
into its friendly shelter. He could not address her yet, he 
said to himself ; he must seize the opportunity of gazing once 
more on her fair face. 

He saw her walk quietly through the gallery and pause 
near one of the seats, the scene of their memorable rencontre 
only a few days previously. It was fiill, so she stood beside 
it, gazing with dreamy pleasure at the picture of the wester- 
ing sea. 

She looked at the picture, and Arthur in his safe retire- 
ment looked at her ; indeed, he was so absorbed in the con- 
templation that it needed a very smart tap on the shoulder 
from a gentleman who had come up behind him, and who had 
already addressed one or two remarks to him utterly in vain, 
to awake him to a sense of things aa they were, and to the 
consciousness of the existence of some few people in the world 
besides himself and Margaret Grey. 

As he looked round he reddened with annoyance, and yet 
Captain Mordaunt, the gentleman who had broken in upon 
his reverie, was a man with whom most young men liked to 
be seen. Not that he was particularly attractive, for his hair 
was turning gray, his face was blotchy, his neck red and long, 
and his nose beginning to take the hue of the purple grape. 
Then, too, his manner was apt to be snappish and sarcastic, 
especially to young men. But what was all this when it was 



A CUNNING TEMPTER. 49 

ft certain fact that he knew, as they would have said, " an 
awful lot ;" that he was the fashion ; that he counted his icr 
trigues by the hundred ? Indeed it was whispered, and net 
without foundation, some said, that not only actresses and in- 
ferior people of that description were concerned in them ; the 
names of ladies of high rank had been associated with that 
of Alfred Mordaunt. But this of course may have been 
only rumor, for rumor is thousand-tongued and not particu- 
larly charitable. In any case, the gallant captain did not 
seem to care to deny the soft imputations. He considered it 
his chief mission in life to be a lady-killer. 

Arthur was not above the weaknesses of his day and genera- 
tion ; he had often courted Captain Mordaunt in the past. 
The past ! How soon those few days had become the past, the 
great blank of existence, when he had lived without having 
seen her! 

What annoyed Arthur so particularly was this. He saw 
in a moment that he had betrayed his secret by his own folly 
— that Captain Mordaunt, the last person in the world to 
whom he would have spoken of his romantic devotion, had 
traced the direction of his glance, and with eye-glass fixed 
was taking a look on his own account. The look was fol- 
lowed by another tap, a congratulatory one, on Arthur's 
shoulder. " By Jove, Master Arthur ! you have taste ! The 
finest woman I've seen for some time, 'pon my solemn word 
and honor! And beauties are something in my line too. 
Not of the pink-and- white sort either, that generally goes 
down with you young fellows. There's refinement, intelli- 
gence, and what d'you call it, that painters make a fuss about, 
in that face." 

His comments sent the indignant blood to the very roots 
of young Arthur's hair. He made an heroic effort at indif- 
ference. " I am really at a loss to understand you, Captain 
Mordaunt," he stammered. 

The gallant captain laughed, holding his sides as if the 
merriment overpowered him utterly. 

" Very good ! Very good I" he cried between the paroxysms. 
" Sly boy ! Didn't know you were so deep. Want to keep 
all to yourself, eh? I'll warrant the fair cousin knows 
nothing." 
4 



50 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

The Color faded from Arthur's face, but there came a dan- 
gerous light into his eyes. "I wish you would keep youi 
remarks and your ill-timed jokes to yourself, Captain Mor- 
daunt," he said sullenly. 

The captain looked astonished, and whistled softly for a 
moment. " Gently, gently, young spitfire !" he said lightly. 
•* But come, who is she ? Let an old friend into the secret. 

Why, I declare, " (mentioning a lady of more repute for 

beauty than character) " couldn't hold a candle to her." 

This was almost too much for Arthur. He turned round 
with flashing eyes, and there was a subdued force in his voice 
as he answered, using the first rash words that came to his 
lips, " How dare you speak of her in such a connection ? I 
am a younger man than you, but, by Heaven ! if you should 
repeat such an insult I could strike you down where you 
stand." 

The captain laughed again, with a trifle of uneasiness this 
time, and he turned a little pale. Rumor said that he was a 
coward, but probably his fear in the present instance was of 
a row in this public place. However that might be, he cer- 
tainly took Arthur's challenge rather coolly. " Calm your- 
self, young man," he said more seriously than he had yet 
spoken. " I scarcely knew I was treading on such dangerous 
ground, and certainly could not mean to insult any friend of 
yours. You know this lady, I presume, since you are so hot 
in her defence ?" 

Again Arthur blushed. What a fool he felt himself 
Captain Mordaunt in this mood was less easy to escape than 
in his former one. " I know her," he answered after a pause, 
" only very slightly." 

" Very slightly, I imagine so," replied the other satirically. 
" It is not the first time I have seen her, though," he added 
sotto voce. 

Arthur was all attention in a moment : " Where have you 
met her, Captain Mordaunt ?" 

" Oh, that is my secret. We can all be close when it suits 
our turn. A word in your ear, young man. Ultra modesty, 
faith in the immaculate — you take me? — never goes down 
with women. I know something of them, and they're all 
alike. There! don't look indignant Follow up your ad van- 



A CUNNING TEMPTER. 51 

tage, if you've gained any, and before long you may nnd out 
that I am right, and thank me for the hint." 

Margaret had found a place at last on the crimson seat 
As the last words were spoken she was leaning forward, hei 
head resting on one of her hands, from which she had taken 
the glove. There was marvellous grace in her position. The 
long white fingers, the flushed cheek, the dark weary eyes and 
the slender bowed form made such a picture as few could 
have looked upon unmoved. 

Captain Mordaunt, whose eyes had never stirred from her 
face, smiled softly (a smile that made Arthur writhe men- 
tally), and clapped his thumb-nails together as though he had 
been applauding some favorite actress. 

" Bravo !" he said in a low tone to his companion: "there's 
a pose for you — knows she's being admired. Bless you, lad ! 
it's women's way ; and so innocent all the time, the pretty 

pets ! By , I'd like awfully to follow this up on ray own 

account. But," and he gave a deep sigh, " I've too many on 
hand already — won't do. Like the Yankee, I shall be 
' crowded out.' I leave the field clear for a younger knight. 
By-bye, old fellow— ^best wishes. I must be oflf — was due at 
Lady 's an hour ago." 

In another moment he was gone, but before he left the hall 
he turned and looked at his young companion, and as he 
looked his lips curled. Arthur did not see him, nor did he 
hear his muttered comment: "Poor fool! he'll have his wings 
singed for him, but serve him right for his impertinence. 
Knock me down, indeed !" 

In Arthur's mind very different thoughts and feelings were 
struggling for ascendency. Indignation, disgust, loathing of 
this world-sated man and his wisdom — these the better side 
of his nature prompted, rejecting with spiritual insight the 
unholy poison ; but there was a lurking demon within hira, 
the ego Arthur had been striving to trample upon, and to it 
all this was sympathetic. 

Perhaps, after all. Captain Mordaunt was right. Chivalry 
and its attendant virtues belonged rather to the region of the 
imagination than to the matter-of-fact life of humanity. It 
was the way of the world for men to amuse themselves while 
they could. It had been Captain Mordaunt's way, and what 



62 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

a pleasant life he led ! Petted, caressed, flattered, at home Ik 
some of the noblest mansions in England, his word law in all 
matters of etiquette, grand ladies considering it an honor to 
entertain him. He had not gained this position by squeamish- 
ness : ihat point he allowed every one to know. 

Arthur's heart told him that all this was false — that what- 
ever or whoever the light loves of Captain Mordaunt might 
have been, the lady whom he admired was pure, true, uncon- 
scious of evil. He felt instinctively, with the insight lively 
sympathy often gives to the young, that to take advantage in 
any way of her lonely position would be to shut himself out 
from the place he had been so happy as to gain in her kindly 
remembrance, and to preclude himself from all hope of 
rendering her any further assistance in the future. 

But the demon of self is strong, and the voice of the heart 
when opposed to it is weak. The pathetic voice of Arthur's 
heart was soon silenced by the echo which self-love gave to 
Captain Mordaunt's words of falsest wisdom. He looked at 
his fair ideal, but his feelings had changed. The animal 
within him was loudly asserting its right to be heard ; the 
self-indulgent nature, which a life of luxury had fostered, 
persuaded itself easily that all was right, and his fair woman 
only as others. Cherishing such feelings, he could not look 
calmly on her face. With a new fire in his veins he turned 
away to wait outside the building until Margaret should 
make her appearance. 

The waiting seemed long, but it did not cool his ardor jr 
recall his former wisdom. Backward and forward he paced, 
up and down, with careful observation of all who left the 
building, until at last he began to fear either that he had 
suffered her to escape him, and thus lost all chance of finding 
out more about her — this was the vague way in which his 
plans were laid — or that something had delayed her, another 
fainting-fit perhaps. The bare idea maddened him ; he put 
his hand to his head, he felt dizzy ; this was very different 
from his nonchalant waiting for Adele a few days previously, 
even from that daily hope — calm through all its earnestness — 
of looking once more on the face of his ideal. 

That fatal tree! How many young souls are lost by the 
passionate craving for its fruit ! The man of the world had 



2. RTHUB FALLS INTO THE SNARE. 53 

held itH beautiful poison to the young man's lips, and he 
could n3t tell that beneath the glory lay dust and ashes. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

ARTHUR FALLS INTO THE SNARE. 

Let me not think I have thought too well of thee. 
Be as thou wast. 

She came out at last. Arthur saw her, and began with 
feverish anxiety to trace every line of her face and form. Her 
veil was thrown back, he noticed that, and even while he did 
so hated himself for his suspicion. " She knows her beauty," 
said the false self within him ; " it will not be difficult to 
show her that others know it too." 

But he noticed something more, something that aroused the 
warm sympathies of his nature : the face that a few moments 
ago had glowed with excitement was very pale, and the sweet 
lips were quivering slightly — it might be with fatigue, it 
might be with nervousness. A woman feels so lonely in great 
London, and loneliness in a crowd is the bitterest kind of 
loneliness to a sensitive nature. 

In a very few moments Arthur's measures were taken. 
"Waiting until she had passed on her way, he hailed a han- 
som, shouted out to the driver the address of the shabby 
street which he had visited wuth his cousin a few days pre- 
viously, and was presently on his way to Margaret's tempo- 
rary home. 

With what view? She had requested him expressly not 
to follow up the acquaintanceship — she was living by herself 
in close retirement. She might very probably be offended al 
his visit. 

Arthur was young and impulsive : he said nothing of all 
tlis to himself, or rather, with Captain Mordaunt's hatei'ul 
hints in his mind, he persuaded himself that it would be only 
too easy to gain her forgiveness for his disobedience. As he 
was whirled along through the streets the young man's heart 
throbbed. Be it remembered that he was inexperienced w 



54 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

the world's ways, and had lived up to this time under strict 
petticoat-government. The very breaking free was exhilarat- 
ing to his senses — so much so, indeed, that he did not even 
stop to reflect on the course he should pursue when,'as he 
hoped and trusted, he would meet her face to face. 

And Margaret in the mean time, knowing nothing of the 
temporary madness her face had caused, was making her way 
as quickly as she could through the throng and bustle of 
London to ber lodgings in Islington. 

Arthur had purposely delayed, and she arrived at the 
house before him. As the hansom dashed into the street, the 
young man caught a glimpse of her black dress disappearing 
behind one of the dingiest doors. 

Now first he began to tremble a little at the thought of 
his own impulsive folly. He stood irresolute ; he half made 
up his mind to return at once. But the voice of the tempter, 
" I know something of women, and they're all alike," rang in 
his ear. 

" I will at least try," said the foolish young man to him- 
self, and with a certain tremor at his heart he rang the door- 
bell. 

The dirty maid-servant looked at him in astonishment. 
Mrs. Grey had received some distinguished visitors, notably 
the brilliant owner of the yellow chariot, but as yet no hand- 
some, fashionably-dressed young gentleman had presented 
himself. 

Margaret, as we know, had only one sitting-room. Judg- 
ing from the elegance of his appearance that this visitor 
would be surely welcome, the girl took upon herself, without 
waiting for Mrs. Grey's permission, to usher the young gentle- 
man into the dingy parlor. 

Margaret was seated there. She had thrown ofi" her bon- 
nt t, and smiling half pleasantly, half sadly, was examining 
a little frock, which had just been sent home ly the dresa- 
tnaker she employed. 

Instinctively, Arthur paused on the threshold. This 
rapid crowning of his hopes was so unexpected as almost to 
take his breath away. But looking at her he dared not pre- 
sume. There was in the solitary woman's face at the moment 
that beautiful mother-look, that calm. Madonna tenderness, 



ARTHUR FALLS INTO THE SNARE. 65 

«hich makes the human charm of Raphael's divine concep- 
tions of the Virgin. Feeling that he had been presumptuous 
and vain, Arthur would fain have turned and fled from this 
calm woman's presence, but now it was too late. 

The opening of the door had disturbed Margaret's dream. 
8he turned round, the tender mother-look changed into utter 
astonishment. Poor Arthur ! She did not even seem to 
know him. Certainly, the room was rather dark, and his 
appearance had taken her completely by surprise ; still, this 
swift forgetfulness was a terrible blow to his youthful vanity. 

Scarcely knowing what to do with himself or how to 
account for his visit, he advanced, awkwardly enough, into 
the little dull room, and Margaret rose from her seat. To 
the excited imagination of the young man the lonely, shabby 
woman had passed suddenly into a stately queen of society. 

As if awaiting his explanation she stood, but now his lips 
were sealed, his fine phrases deserted him, he could not stam- 
mer out a word of explanation. 

It was Margaret who broke the embarrassing silence: "Sir, 
to what do I owe — " 

He broke her short : " Mrs. Grey, you are cruel. Surely 
you must remember, you must know, I mean — understand — 
the interest, the enthusiasm — " 

She was looking at him fixedly as he spoke, and at last his 
confusion became so overpowering that he stopped short. 
Then he could have bit out his tongue for his audacity, for 
the astonishment in her face was replaced by a keen and bit- 
ter pain. 

" I remember you now," she said very slowly. " Yes, you 
are the young gentleman who some few days ago received the 
fervent thanks of a lonely woman for his chivalrous kind- 
ness." 

The red blood mounted to Arthur's cheek. Unable 
longer to bear the gaze of those mournful eyes, he threw 
himsell down on the nearest chair and covered his face with 
his hands. 

* You did not understand me then," she continued very 
Badly ; " you thought that — " 

" Stop, for pity's sake, stop 1" cried the young man, lifting 
up an agitated face. " I know all you would say. I am a 



66 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

weak, miserable fool, not worthy of having even been allowed 
to assist you ; but if you only knew." 

His penitence seemed to subdue her indignation. " Foolish 
boy!" she said with one of her rarely beautiful smiles. "I 
know perfectly well, and therefore it is that I forgive this im- 
j)ertinence. A little experience of the world will teach you 
your mistake. Three days ago I read in your young frank 
face that you judged me rightly, and I thanked you in my 
heart. I will not retract the judgment I formed of you 
then; but remember, what you have done is foolish aud 
ought never to be repeated." 

" I know it — I know it," moaned Arthur ; " but may I 
never see you again ? Ah ! if by any service, however hard, 
I could make you happier than you are !" 

She put out her hand, smiling kindly into his earnest face : 
" The best service you can render me now is to shake hands 
and say good-bye. As I said to you before, we move in dif- 
ferent worlds. You will soon forget this infatuation, or only 
remember it as a warning against taking any advantage, how- 
ever slight, of an unprotected woman. In that case I shall 
have rendered you a service." 

Where was Captain Mordaunt's wisdom ? Banished by a 
few words from a weak but noble woman. Happy for Arthur 
that the fair face hid a fairer soul ! The poison was drawn 
out of his heart, and youth's own chivalry took its right place 
in his nature. 

Bowing low over the offered hand, he answered in a broken 
voice, " I obey you, and I thank you. I cannot promise to 
forget, but from this time all my thoughts of you shall be 
tinged by the deep respect which Ls your due." 



ARTHUE'S SECRET. . 57 

CHAPTER IX. 

ARTHUR'S SECRET 

And I loved lier — loved her, certes, 
Afl I loved all heavenly objects, with uplifted eyes and hands — 
As I loved pure inspiration, loved the Graces, loved the Virtues, 
In a love content with writing his own name on desert sands. 

A LUXURIOUS drawing-room, furnished with all the taste 
and elegance that money can command ; flowers here, there 
and everywhere — flowers in the deep recesses of lace-veiled 
windows, flowers on the multitude of tables that stood in 
every corner, flowers — and these the sweetest of them all — in 
the lap of a young fair-haired girl who filled a corner of one 
of the sofas. 

She was paying no great attention to the flowers, only 
bathing one of her hands in them from time to time, as 
though to refresh herself with their cool fragrance. The 
other liand, her eyes and her whole soul appeared to be given 
to the book she held, an elegant little volume bound in fawn- 
colored calfskin. 

She was so deeply engrossed that she did not hear the duor 
open, and her cousin had time to cross the long room, sit down 
by her side and take possession of the hand that was trifling 
with the flowers before she was aware of his presence. 

Then she looked up, blushed charmingly and closed her 
book : '< Arthur dear, how delightful ! I began to think you 
were never coming near us again, and I wanted particularly 
to speak to you about something that has been in my head 
ever since our visit to the Academy." 

" Four days !" answered Arthur, languidly, throwing him- 
self back on the sofa — " an enormous time, as young ladies 
would say, for one subject to engross them, especially in this 
age of progress." 

" I suppose it would be absurd to imagine that you even 
remember, Master Arthur," replied Ad^le, quite equal to the 
occasion — " hoys, as mamma always says, are so volatile." 

" Boys !" Arthur shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. 
" You are very polite to-day, Addle." 



58 ' CHASTE AS ICE, FORE AS SNOW. 

There was a shade of annoyance in his voice, which made 
Addle look up at him, for she was a kind little lady who never 
carried her jokes too far. The result of the look was a rapid 
movement from her side of the sofa to Arthur's, and an 
earnest inquiry: "Arthur dear, something is wrong with 
you, you must surely be ill." 

For Arthur's face was pale, and there was a wan, anxious 
contraction on his broad white brow. 

His only answer was a faint smile. Then, after a pause, 
" You were reading. Addle. Oh !" lifting the book from the 
small reading-table that stood conveniently near the sofa, 
" The Faerie Queene. I thought it would be something of 
the kind. Read some of it aloud, like a good girl ; I'm too 
done up with this hot weather to talk just now." 

" Poor old fellow !" Addle smoothed back his curly hair 
and imprinted a kiss, that did not seem to excite her cousin 
particularly, between his temples. " Your forehead is so hot, 
dear, let me bathe it with eau-de-cologne for you." 

She opened a little bottle of richly-cut, ruby-colored glass, 
and pouring some of its sweet contents on her handkerchief 
pressed it again and again to his brow, Arthur submitting with 
the delicate grace of an invalid. 

" There," he said at last, " that'll do, dear ; you can read 
now." 

And the obedient Adele, having first carefully lowered one 
of the Venetian blinds that no glare might offend her cousin's 
eyes, proceeded to read her favorite book in a soft, measured 
cadence that suited it admirably. There was no stumbling 
over the old English words. Adele was so thoroughly ac- 
quainted with the style that the quaint language came natur- 
ally from her lips, even with a kind of delicate grace. Love 
had given her the art, for she loved, more than any book she 
had ever read, this dreamy, old-world poem, with its fair 
women, its armed knights, its dragons and its myths. 
Perhaps the force of contrast made these things specially 
dear to the young girl's soul, for there was not much romance 
in the fashionable life her mother taught her to think the best 
and wisest of all lives for a nineteenth-century young lady to 
lead. 

Her voice sounded like the echo of a dream in the wid» 



ARTHUR'S SECRET. 69 

room, and she herself, in her light summer dress, might well 
have answered to the description of one of the fair " maydes " 
T^hose woes and joys the gentle poet of another age has 
illumined with his silvery pen, while Arthur, as he rested on 
the sofa in an attitude of careless grace, his dark, lazy-looking 
eyes half closed, his head thrown back upon the cushions, 
might have been one of the brave young knights refreshing 
himself in his lady's bower after some terrible encounter with 
the many-headed, many-handed monster from whom it was 
his grand mission to free humanity in general, fair woman- 
kind in particular. 

But the afternoon wore away. Ad^le had just finished the 
account of a mighty encounter between Arthur of the magic 
sword and three unknightly knights who had attacked him 
together. 

It had apparently aroused Arthur, for he rose suddenly and 
stood by her side, looking down upon her with a certain earn- 
estness. 

" Shut the book for the present, Ad^le," he said, " I am 
ready to talk now ; it has awoke me." 

" What has awoke you, dear ?" 

" Your favorite poet, I suppose, my little cousin ; but come, 
what were you so anxious to say to me when I came in just 
now ?" 

" Oh, Arthur, you cannot surely have forgotten. I wanted 
to speak to you about that beautiful fainting lady in the 
Academy." 

" Perhaps I have not forgotten, Ad^le." Arthur turned 
away from his cousin as he spoke, for he did not wish her to 
see the sudden flush which not all the proud consciousness of 
manhood and superiority had been strong enough to re- 
strain. 

" Well," he continued after a pause, as his cousin remained 
thoughtfully silent, " I do remember ; but what of her ?" 

"I have been thinking of her, Arthur." Ad^le's eyes 
looked sorrowful. "And whenever I think of her I remem- 
ber those miserable houses, the shabby black dress and the 
quiet sadness in her face. Oh, Arthur, do you think it would 
be possible to help her in any way ?" 

" For you it might be," said Arthur with an appearance of 



60 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Budden interest. " Unfortunately," he added bitterly, " women 
have the habit of looking upon any attempt at friendliness in 
one of the opposite sex as a species of insult." 

This was rather too much for Ad^le. With every respeci 
for her cousin and fianc6, he was still too young, in her es- 
timation, to be capable of exciting indignation in the breast 
of any woman. She laughed merrily : " I like your vanity, 
sir. As if any one could be insulted with you ! You would 
have to pin on a false moustache, draw your hat over youi 
brows to hide those ingenuous-looking eyes of yours, and 
button an enormous rough great coat up to your chin, before 
any one — any stranger, I mean — could imagine you even 
grown up. Why /look ages older than you !" 

Ad^le got up and looked at herself in the mirror. 

" Yes, ages !" she repeated, with provoking emphasis and 
in eager expectation of a delightful torrent of self-vindication 
from her cousin. They often indulged in this kind of wordy 
war, and Ad^le's feminine volubility and quickness of wit 
generally gave her the advantage. 

No answer came from Arthur to the rash challenge. He 
was standing behind her, not looking into the mirror, but, as 
though utterly unconscious of her light words, gazing away 
into vacancy. Addle caught sight of his face in the mirror, 
and a sudden silence seized her, for even as she spoke she saw 
that in her young cousin's face which warned her he was a 
boy no longer. 

He had drawn himself up to his full height, and stood 
seemingly rapt in earnest thought, for his brows were slightly 
contracted, and his ingenuous-looking eyes had taken a deep, 
fixed look that strangely moved his cousin. With the quick- 
ness of a woman's insight she saw that her jest had been ill- 
timed, that a certain indescribable change, perhaps that for 
which she had hoped and longed, had come to the beautiful 
boy whom she had loved and caressed with almost maternal 
tenderness, for manhood's strength of purpose was written on 
his face. Her first feeling was a sense of foreboding. If 
Arthur was indeed changed, would he be changed to her ? 

The next was a determination, strong as the womanhood 
which with her love the young girl had put on early, to share 
his secret, whatever it might be. 



ARTHUR'S SECRET. 61 

81ie was too young and too inexperienced to understand all 
',hat this change, which she certainly felt, might mean ; she 
could not reason about the new earnestness, nor trace it to 
any cause which he might think it well to hide, for Adele was 
eminently generous and unsuspicious. She was accustomed 
to her cousin's light, boyish affection, and did not expect him 
to be a passionate lover ; she was therefore ready with all her 
Boul to rejoice in anything that would make him less frivolous, 
less absorbed in self and the mere enjoyment of life. 

For a few moments she stood silently at the mirror, look- 
ing into it, but looking absently, for her mind was engaged in 
the problem of how to approach him, how to gain his confi- 
dence at this time which the young girl instinctively felt to 
be critical in her cousin's history. If he had ambitious 
dreams, was it not right that she should share them ? She 
had always been his confidante; the bare idea, indeed, of 
being shut out from any of Arthur's secrets gave Addle keen 
pain. 

Deciding at last that frankness was her best policy, she 
turned to her cousin and putting both hands on his shoulders 
looked earnestly into his eyes. " Arthur," she said with a 
slight tremor in her voice, "what are you thinking about? 
Tell me." 

He might have been called from a distant land, so great 
was the interval that separated his mind from hers at that 
moment, and at first he seemed even to have difficulty in re- 
calling his scattered ideas. 

She repeated the question, with an added earnestness that 
lent pathos to her voice. 

Then he looked down upon her : 

" Why do you wish so much to know. Addle ?" 

" Oh, Arthur, how can you ask ?" Her voice trembled, she 
was very near tears. " Dear," she continued in a lower voice, 
taking his hand in hers, "if I thought you had one corner in 
your heart of Vy^ich I knew nothing, I scarcely know what I 
should do. ' Trust me all In all,' Arthur. I say it in all sin- 
cerity." She smiled faintly. " I promise not to be like that 
naughty Vivien, wrapping you up in spells, even if — if you 
should have any secret — " 

" That would pain you very much to know, little cousin." 



62 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Addle looked up bravely: "I should prefer to know it, 
Arthur — indeed I should ; I think, dear — I think — I could 
put myself out of the question altogether, and help you as a 
sister might." 

He did not notice the tremulousness, the slight choking of 
voice with which her brave little sentence ended. 

" I wish with all my heart that you were my sister, AdSle : 
then I could tell you without any hesitation." 

Addle turned a little pale : " I am your sister, Arthur. 
Tell me ' 

He looked down upon her kindly : " I will tell you, Addle, 
for in these matters I believe frankness to be the best policy ; 
and, after all, it may be only a dream. I was thinking of 
Margaret Grey." 



CHAPTER X. 
HOW ADkLE RECEIVES THE DISCLOSURE. 

The woman who loves should indeed 
Be the friend of the man that she loves. She should heed 
Not her selfish and often mistaken desires, 
But his interest whose fate her own interest inspires. 

And this, then, was the awakening ? Like almost every 
thing in this wayward world of ours, it scarcely chimed in 
with the ideas and plans that had been formed concerning it. 

Addle had often mourned her cousin's frivolity, but she was 
young and hopeful. He was only a boy, she had told herself. 
Some of the great things in the world — its art, its literature, 
its science, the grand sphere of politics or the grander field 
of benevolence — would sooner or later throw chains about 
his spirit, so that, following where it led, he too, with herself 
perhaps as a twin attendant star, like the " Laon and Laone " 
of Shelley, might take a place in the poet's divine temple of 
genius, and live a life not utterly in vain in its influences on 
humanity. 

She had even thought to arouse him herself, that by love 
he might rise, as others had done before him, to something 
higher than the fashionable life of self-pleasing. But of this 



HOW ADilLE RECEIVES THE DISCLOSURE. 03 

ih« had never thought — that love indeed, but the love of 
another woman, should be the motive-power rousing his soul 
to earnestness. For she could not be mistaken. The change 
that had come to him — which change, she could not but re- 
member as she cast her thoughts over the past few days, had 
dated from that memorable afternoon at the Academy — the 
impressive way in which he had told her of his thought, the 
quiet earnestness of his manner, all tended to the revelation 
of a fact — one that she would have put away indignantly had 
she not been forced to look it in the face. Arthur was in 
love, and not with her. 

The beautiful woman whom in her youthful enthusiasm she 
had admired — loved even for her very loveliness — ^had won 
her cousin's heart. He loved Margaret Grey as he had nev(ir 
loved her, his cousin, the friend of his youth and childhood : 
with her he had remained a boy; her beautiful rival had 
roused the dormant fire within him, and suddenly the boy 
had put on his manhood. 

These were some of the thoughts that crowded bewilder- 
ingly on Adele's brain as they sat together on the sofa — she 
and her cousin — with his strange confession between them. 
He was waiting to hear what she would say ; she was for the 
first few moments unable to speak. On the table before them 
lay the forgotten volume of the Faerie Queene; at their feet, 
in sweet confusion, were the scattered flowers fallen from 
AdMe's lap. She sat perfectly still, her hands crossed and 
her eyes cast down ; he looked at her with some earnestness, 
and perhaps a little surprise. 

Arthur's aflTection for Ad^le was of a calm, brotherly kind, 
and he had always imagined that she cared for him in very 
much the same manner. 

Hitherto, indeed, he had not been in a position to gauge 
the heights and depths of that mysterious, volatile essence 
which young mortals dignify by the fair name of love. But 
now, with this new light in his own heart, he was better able 
to understand his cousin's, and in her downcast face he 
thought he read her secret.' 

It made him tender instantly. Young men and old men 
are alike in this. Whether loving or not themselves, they 
are pleased when they find out, by indubitable signs, that they 



64 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

have inspired the sentiment ; and this knowledge makes them, 
for the moment, strangely gentle and sympathetic. 

Arthur drew nearer to his cousin, and put his arm around 
her waist. To his surprise again, she pushed his arm gently 
aside. 

" Not now, dear Arthur !" she said, in a soft, clear voice, 
lifting her blue eyes to his face ; " I want you to tell me all 
about it." 

" About what ?" said Arthur, somewhat taken aback at the 
result of his impulsive frankness. 

" Your love for Margaret Grey," she said gently, but not 
without a faint tremor in her voice. 

" Did I say I loved her, Ad^le ?" It was Arthur's turn to 
speak with a trembling voice and flushed face, but these told 
his tale only too eloquently. 

" Not in so many words," replied Addle ; " but, dear, you 
have revealed your secret, and I am glad. It was like your- 
self, Arthur — ^frank and true. I might have guessed it before, 
for she is beautiful as a dream, like the lady Una ; and I can 
imagine so well how a man's heart would go out to that kind 
of sadness and helplessness. I wish I had been a man;" 
AdMe sighed as she spoke ; " but, perhaps, as a woman I 
shall be able to help you more. Strange — isn't it ? — I was 
thinking of her, her face haunted me so, and longing to find 
out more about her — all for her own sake ; now I will do it 
for yours." 

The words were spoken very quietly and with a certain de- 
termination, that Arthur found it very difficult to under- 
stand. 

" But, Addle," he stammered out, " you forget — " 

" That you and I are betrothed in a kind of way — is that 
what you mean ? Thank you for thinking of it ; but I 
should be grieved for that to stand in your way." She 
gmiled a rather watery smile. "I promised not to be like 
Vivien, so, rather than make a prison of my spells, I shall 
cast them all to the winds." Then, more gravely, " We were 
too young, Arthur — I told my mother so — too young to know 
our own minds, as people say — at least you were." Here 
Addle stopped suddenly ; she was on the point of betraying 
the ♦'cret which — brave little maiden! — she thought sho 



h 



B:0W ADiJLE RECEIVES THE DISCLOSURE. 65 

had preserved so well. But her calmness had reassured 
Arthur. 

" You are right, AdSle," he answered gravely — and for the 
moment, with the unreasoning impulse of womanhood, she 
hated him lor his quick acquiescence — "we were both too 
young; we had seen too little of the world; and even now 
I scarcely know how we ought to act. Our engagement has 
been announced ; then my aunt — " 

AdSle smiled faintly: "It will be best to say nothing to 
mamma at present, nor to anybody ; we can surely be what 
we have been to one another — ^brother and sister; we have 
never been more — we could not wish to be less." 

There was a tinge of bitterness in AdSle's voice as she said 
the last words, but the ears of very young men, when not 
quickened by any stronger feeling than brotherly affection, 
are not swift to catch these slight intonations. 

" You must let me be your friend and confidante, Arthur," 
she continued more gently; "I shall still like to be the first 
to know everything that nearly concerns you." 

Her gentleness touched Arthur, He took one of her hands 
in his : " You shall always be what you are to me, Adele — 
my dearest friend and counsellor. I shall come to you for 
advice and sympathy." 

She rose, and stooping began to collect the fallen flowers — 
a pretext only, for the tears were beginning to force their 
way to her eyes, and she was determined to show no weakness 
in her cousin's presence. 

" jNIy poor flowers !" she said lightly, " they have been for- 
gotten : go and fetch another vase from the breakfast-room, 
like a good old fellow. I have filled all here, and I want 
these up stairs." 

By the time her cousin had returned with the vase Ad^le 
was herself again. Grouping the flowers delicately, with 
clever fingers well accustomed to this kind of work, she 
began her gentle catechism: "Have you seen her again, 
Arthur?" 

Perhaps it was a relief to him to unburden himself, to 
pour out to another the torrent of self-condemnation that had 
been oppressing bin: . 

" Don't ask me, Adele," he said, pacing the room excitedly. 



66 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW 

** I am a wretch — a fool — an idiot ! I mistook her — think of 
it 1 I wonder will she ever be able to bear the sight of me 
again? I took the advice of a villain, who knows nothing 
whatever about women like her." 

"What can you mean, Arthur?" broke in Adele, whose 
flowers had fallen from her hands in her astonishment. 

He did not seem to hear the interruption. "I did know- 
ingly what I knew would offend her," he continued, clench- 
ing his fists and drawing his brows together, as though chal- 
lenging himself for his misconduct. 

Ad^le sighed : " I vrish you would explain yourself, dear." 

"Explain myself!" Arthur came suddenly down from the 
heroic with a little laugh : " Ah, yes, by the bye, you don't 
know, and really it's not a very creditable story. AVell — to 
make a clean breast of it — I went to the Academy yesterday. 
She was there, and I had the happiness of seeing her. She 
didn't see me, but while I was looking at her with feelings 
that you can imagine. Captain Mor daunt came up behind 
me." 

" Not at all a good companion for you, dear," interrupted 
Ad^le with the wise air of a little mother, but blushing, girl 
like, as she spoke, for Captain Mordaunt was an admirer of 
hers : he had once or twice seized a quiet opportunity of 
looking into her blue eyes in a way that offended as much 
as it bewildered her. " Please have nothing to do with him, 
Arthur," she continued pleadingly. 

" Why, Addle, what have you against Captain Mordaunt ? 
I thought you had only met him once or twice." 

" That once or twice was enough. He is one of those men 
who believe in nothing good, who seem to delight in the 
wickedness of the world. I always think such people must 
be particularly bad themselves. But it's no use reasoning 
about it. I dislike Captain Mordaunt." 

" A case, in fact, of ' I do not like you. Doctor Fell,' " put in 
Arthur provokingly. " I shall send him to you when he wants 
a character. Addle ; but, do you know, amongst ladies your 
opinion would be considered rather singular ? I certainly 
bave never been able to see what they find to admire in 
him." 

•* Nor I, and I must say I pity their taste ; he's ugly and 



HOW ADilLE RECEIVES THE DISCLOSURE. 67 

conceited. But what did he say about her — Margaret Grey, 
I mean ?" 

Arthur'.? manner grew excited again : " What he said was 
not so bad as what he implied with his odious hints. I was 
idiot enough to listen to him, to believe him partially. I dis- 
obeyed her, Ad^le, and called on her in that wretched place 
at Islington." 

Adele looked up bewildered : " But I can't see why that 
should offend her. Of course you were never properly intro- 
.duced, but then the circumstances were peculiar, and she must 
have seen that we were tolerably respectable people." 

" What a simple, innocent little girl you are, AdMe !" said 
Arthur rather grandly. " You see what I say is quite true — 
with all your romantic notions you know nothing whatever of 
the world. I can't very well explain, as you don't seem to 
understand ; but, anyway, what I did was very stupid and 
wrong, and she showed me that in a moment. Oh, if I could 
tell you how she looked — so beautiful, so sad!" 

The remembrance was overpowering. Arthur hid his burn- 
ing face in both his hands, and Adele was silent. To her pure 
young heart this passion, which an older and more experienced 
woman would certainly have laughed to scorn, was a sacred 
thing. 

" She forgave me," he continued after a pause. " She said 
I would soon forget the infatuation." 

There was a mournful incredulity in the boy's voice to which 
the young girl's heart responded. That he could eyerforgetihe 
infatuation seemed, for the moment, as impossible to one cou- 
sin as to the other. 

Neither of them spoke for some minutes, then Ad^le raised 
to her cousin a face that was streaming with tears. " I can't 
help it, Arthur," she said simply, "and please don't think it's 
I'or myself I have everything to make me happy. I was 
thinking of you and of her. You know they say women's 
wits are sharper than men's in these matters. I will try and 
help you in some way, for you ynrnt meet her again, dear ; but 
just now everything seems confused. Mamma expects you to 
dinner, so you had better go home at once and dress. I can 
easily arrange for a quiet talk in the course of the evening, 
and then perhaps I shall have thought of some plan, for we 



68 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

must lose no time, as I know she is only staying temporarily 
in London." 

She said it all in a broken way through the tears she could 
not keep back. He tried to kiss her then, but she slipped out 
of his arms. 

Poor child ! The aching at her heart was too great to be 
borne any longer. She finished her cry in her own room, but 
what she had said was true — it was not all for herself. 

The beautiful lonely stranger and her cousin's passion, 
which her woman's insight told her was not very hopeful, had 
their share in causing her sorrow. She could not indulge 
long, however, in the luxury of tears. She too had to make 
her dinner-toilet, and that evening her mother was not the 
only person at the dinner-table who thought she looked even 
fiairer than usual. 



CHAPTER XI. 
A FACE AT THE WINDOW. 

Sympathy 
Must call her in love's name, and then, I know, 
She rises up and brightens as she should, 
And lights her smile for comfort, and is slow 
In nothing of high-hearted fortitude. 

Ad1:le kept her word. She set her wits to work with such 
good effect that the next morning found her and her cousin 
in the carriage, under the conduct of the stately coachman, 
on their way to that unfashionable locality, the neighborhood 
of Islington. 

They had started, presumably, on a shopping excursion, 
the delusion being maintained by two or three stoppages in 
Regent street, after which, by Arthur's direction, they drove 
to the vicinity of The Angel, where carriage and coachman 
were left in waiting, the remainder of the way being made on 
foot for the sake of the preservation of their secret. 

It had been agreed between them that Addle should pay a 
visit to Margaret, Arthur waiting for her at the entrance of 
the narrow street where she lodged. The object of her visit 



A FACE AT THE WINDOW. 63 

was in the present instance only to inquire after Mrs. Grey'a 
Jiealth, to take a kindly interest in her welfare, and to try and 
persuade her to accept their offer of friendship : it had been 
decided between them that upon this occasion Arthur's name 
should not be mentioned. Adele had taken upon herself the 
office of simply imving the way for further intercourse — of 
preventing Mrs. Grey from escaping them altogether. This, 
with her quiet tact and gentle sympathy, she did not despair 
of accomplishing, if fate would only be commonly propitious, 
for Adele was really in earnest. Putting self out of the way, 
she had thrown herself heart and soul into her cousin's 
scheme, and all the more readily, it may be, from the affec- 
tion which had arisen spontaneously in her own heart at the 
sight of Margaret's pure, calm beauty. 

Adele was ouly eighteen, and eighteen is an impressionable 
age, open not only to accesses of what is called the tender 
passion, but to feelings perhaps much tenderer and fairer, for 
the souls of the very young, especially among women, are 
keenly susceptible to the subtle influences of beauty and 
grace ; it is not uncommon for a young girl to be deeply, 
jealously enamored of one of her own sex ; to experience 
the delights, the tremors, the anxieties of love itself, and far 
more palpably than in any of the necessary flirtations that 
diversify her budding womanhood. Beauty is the embodi- 
ment of the young girl's dream, and beauty she finds more 
visibly in her own sex than in the other. 

The first loving emotion of Milton's Eve was for the fair 
watery image that represented herself in all the radiant 
charms of female loveliness. It was only afterward that she 
discovered 

" How beauty is excelled by manly grace. 
And wisdom, which alone is truly fair." 

Addle was in this first stage, and Margaret seemed to her the 
living embodiment of all that had so often won and fascinated 
her in poetry and romance. The evident mystery that sur- 
rounded the fair stranger, her sadness, her lonely friendless 
position, all added to the spell. 

The first emotion of wounded self-love over, Addle ceased 
to wonder at Arthur's desertion, or even to grieve over it, and 



70 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

waa ready to go through fire and water for their common 
divinity. 

In spite of her grand resolutions, however, she felt rather 
nervous when, Arthur having been left at the top of the dull- 
looking row of houses, she stood alone on the doorstep of the 
one indicated by him, inquiring for Mrs. Grey. 

Mrs. Grey was at home. The servant-girl threw open the 
door of the small sitting-room without previous warning, and 
showed Margaret herself on her knees before an obstinate 
trunk, which apparently refused to be fastened. At the sound 
of the opening door she rose in some embarrassment, looked 
at the card which the girl had thrust into her hand, and then 
at Ad6le, who was standing, with some hesitation in her man- 
ner, on the threshold of the room. The card had been an 
enigma, but AdSle's pleasant girlish face solved it in a 
moment. 

" Come in," she said warmly, going forward to meet her. 
" It is exceedingly kind of you to have thought of paying me 
a visit ; but you find me in great disorder. Let me see," 
looking round the room ; " I must try and find you an unoc- 
cupied chair." 

" Forgive me," said Ad^le with gentle courtesy. " I know 
it is too early for a call, but ever since we met the other 
day I have been so anxious to see you once more, and this 
is the only time in the day when I can manage to come so 
far." 

She blushed as she spoke, and Margaret was too kind to 
add to her embarrassment by any expression of surprise at 
her unexpected visit. She smiled pleasantly, and sat down 
by her side. " I am only too delighted to see you, my dear 
Miss Churchill ; my visitors are never numerous, and they 
do not always come on such pleasant errands as yours. You 
see I am preparing for flight ; I can really stand London no 
onger." 

Adele's sympathetic eyes were fixed on Margaret's face. 
She gave a little sigh : " Yes, I am sure it must ')e very 
lonely for you, living all by yourself here." 

" Sometimes it is, I must confess. In my present home, a 
seaside village, I know most of the country-people, and I 
have my little Laura to go about with me. Then (at k ast 



A FACE AT THE WINDOW. , 71 

this is my feeling) the loneliness of the country is very differ- 
ent from the loneliness of towns." 

" I can quite understand that," said AdMe earnestly, " al- 
though I have very little experience of loneliness of any 
kind. I sometimes wish, indeed, to have a little more time 
to myself. But I must not forget what specially brought me 
here to-day. My cousin and I have been very anxious about 
you, Mrs. Grey, for your fainting-fit lasted so long we feared 
it was the commencement of a serious illness." 

Margaret smiled : " Thanks to your timely help, my dear 
Miss Churchill, I have felt no after ill effects whatever. I 
scarcely know how it might have been with me had I had to 
find my way home alone; but it all arose from my own 
stupidity. The time passed so rapidly in the picture-galleries 
that I forgot all about lunch. When I reached home I re- 
membered that breakfast had been my only meal that day. 
My faintness must have been caused by want of food, so you 
see it was not very interesting after all." 

She spoke the words lightly, but Addle wondered with a 
sudden pang whether the want of food had anything to do 
with her poverty, for the interior of the shabby-looking house 
confirmed her worst fears. To put up with such a miserable 
place could be the result of nothing but dire necessity. 

Her voice was very tender as she spoke again after a little 
pause, laying her hand afiectionately on Margaret's arm and 
looking up earnestly into her pale, sad face: "Dear Mrs. 
Grey, you look very delicate, indeed you do; you should 
take more care of yourself." 

Perhaps it was the sympathy that shone out of the young 
girl's glistening eyes, a human longing for something like this 
warm young love, that seemed to be offering itself so spon- 
taneously, or a sudden sickness of the self-contained life she 
had been leading, for Adele's gentle words and gestures 
broke the crust of calm reserve with which Margaret had 
striven to surround herself. " Ah, child," she said, tears in 
her eyes and in her voice, " it is for the young and happy tc 
take care of themselves; their lives are precious. From 
mine too much of the sweetness has gone to make it worthy 
of preservation. How strange it is ! I used to live and to 
enjoy life ; now, even pleasures are like apples of Sodom— 



72 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SXOW. 

they turn to dust and ashes in my mouth. I feel inclined to 
write 'Vanity of vanities' upon everything." She smiled 
through her tears: "I should not speak of such things to 
you." 

But tears, real, large, glistening tears, were in Ad61e's eyes. 
«' Why not?" she said impetuously. Then, after another pause, 
for though the young can give tears to sorrow, they are help- 
less very often to give words (if they only knew it, how 
much more eloquent those tears are than the after common- 
places with which the world teaches them to treat suffering !), 
" Oh, Mrs. Grey, I wish I could help you in some way. Will 
you let me be your friend ?" 

Margaret smiled : " You have done me good already, dear ; 
your sympathy is very sweet, and especially, I think, to me, 
for it brings back to my mind a time when sympathy was 
never wanting. I had a friend once, but she has gone, like 
other beautiful things, out of my life." 

" Tell me about her," said Adele. 

Margaret shook her head : " No, no ; enough of miseries 
for one day. I scarcely know when I have talked so much 
about myself; and do you know I am the least bit in the 
world curious?" 

" What about, Mrs. Grey ?" 

" I want you to tell me honestly what brought you here 
to-day." 

Ad^le blushed. " Please don't be vexed with me, or think 
that my visit was from idle curiosity. What I say is really 
true," her admiration shone out of her eyes as she spoke : 
" ever since I saw you in the Academy, your face has haunted 
me. You know one reads of those kinds of attraction. Have 
you any spells, Mrs. Grey ? I could not rest, in fact, until I 
had seen you once more." 

Margaret was sitting near the window, a faint smile, half 
of pleasure, half of surprise, on her lips as she listened tc 
AdSle's impulsive words, but before she could frame an answer 
they both became aware by a sudden intuition — the effect of 
that inexplicable mesmeric power which the human eye pos- 
sesses — that they were being watched. Instinctively they 
looked out. A tall, dark-looking man, somewhat of an ele- 
gant in his appearance, was leaning quietly on the small iron 



FLIGHT. 73 

lailings that skirted the area and kitchen steps. In this posi- 
tion his chin was on a level with the top of the muslin blind ; 
he could have a full view of all that took place in the room. 
He was availing himself without stint or scruple of the 
advantage. 

CHAPTER XII. 
FLIGHT. 

Next a lover — with a dream 
'Neath his waking eyelids hidden, 
And a frequent sigh unbidden, 
And an idlesse all the day, 
And a silence that is made 
Of a word he dares not say. 

Adele gave a little scream. She looked at Margaret. 
Her face had turned as pale as ashes. She had not generally 
much color, but this was no ordinary pallor : a gray, livid 
look seemed to spread itself gradually over her features till 
even her lips were blanched. For a moment she seemed to 
be stunned. Then she rose, apparently with difficulty, and 
leaning forward on the window-sash seized the blind to put it 
between themselves and the audacious watcher. 

He did not wait for it to be drawn down. Turning slowly, 
he passed away down the quiet street, but before he did so, 
Adele saw that his lips curled themselves into a mocking smile. 
Astonishment and a vague sense of alarm had rendered her 
helpless for the moment. When the blind was drawn down 
and the man had gone, she leapt to her feet and threw both 
her arms round Margaret's waist, for, leaning still as if for 
support against the window-sash, Adele saw that her friend 
was tottering, and that in her widely-opened eyes there was 
a dazed, bewildered look. She drew her down gently to the 
nearest seat, then, kneeling by her side, rubbed one of her 
cold liands in both her own. "Mrs. Grey, what is it?" she 
cried almost piteously. " Can I do anything for you ?" 

Her voice seemed to arouse Margaret. She passed one of 
her hands over her forehead. " Was it a dream ?" she said 
in a faint, low voice. " I thought I saw him ; and J had 



7 A CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

vowed, sworn that he should never set eyes on me again ; and 
he was smiling, I thought, a mocking, triumphant smile, such 
as — " Then suddenly she caught sight of the lowered 
blind : " Why did I draw down the blind ? the sun is not on 
the street. Ah yes," with a heavy sigh, " I remember now. 
He was standing there — he has tracked me; but, thank God! 
I am not at home. I am in big, endless London. He shall 
find out no further ; I will leave this place at once. Oh ! 
Maurice, Maurice !" 

It might have been the cry of a tormented spirit passed 
away for ever from hope and peace and joy. The misery of 
those last words was so deep and poignant that the young 
girl shuddered. 

She could not speak: she knelt helpless by her friend's 
side, not even attempting consolation, while Margaret, cover- 
ing her face with both bands, wept hot tears, that streamed 
through her fingers and on to Adele's hand, which rested still 
upon her knees. And so they remained for a few moments — 
moments that seemed ages to poor Adele ; then, unable to 
bear it longer, she rose to her feet, and putting her arms 
round Margaret's neck kissed her on the broAv, It was the 
impulsive movement of a helpless sympathy, a girl-like 
action. She could not help, but she could comfort. 

Mrs. Grey had forgotten her presence. The touch aroused 
her. She looked up suddenly, and shaking ofi" the flowing 
tears took the young girl's hands in hers. " Poor child !" she 
said gently, " it is too bad of me to frighten you like this. I 
fear I am very selfish and forgetful ; but you know nothing — 
God grant you never may ! — of miseries like mine. And 
now — will you think me ungrateful ? — I fear I must ask you 
to leave me. It is necessary for me to go from here at once. 
And yet," she continued meditatively, " if you could stay till 
the last ; he might return — " 

" I shall not think of leaving you till I see you out of this 
place, Mrs. Grey," said Adele authoritatively, "Listen," 
she continued, more rapidly ; " I can arrange it all. I told 
you before of my talent for management, and now it has all 
come into my head quite suddenly. Ah, I should have made 
a first-rate diplomatist. You want to escape this rude man, 
and no wonder. Tf you do as I say we shall be off in a quar- 



FLIGHT. 7ft 

ter of an hour. Leave your boxes with their address ; I can 
see to their being sent after you. I see they are nearly 
packed. My cousin is at the end of the street waiting for 
me ; he will fetch the carriage, which is only a few yards dis- 
tant, and we can drive you to any station you like to mention. 
There you can take a ticket — not, if you like, to your own 
village, but to some place at no great distance, in case this 
man should follow us, and to-morrow you can go on to your 
own home." 

There was something enlivening in Adele's energy. Mar- 
garet's face brightened, she wiped away the remaining tears, 
and turning aside renewed the struggle which Adele's entrance 
had interrupted with the obstinate trunk. 

"Your plan would be perfection but for one thing," she 
said with the quiet dignity which had characterized her before 
this excitement had come. " My dear Miss Churchill, forgive 
me, you are young. I am a total stranger to you. Your 
mother, your friends — would they not be displeased ? Is it 
right for you to do this ?" 

" It is, it is," said Addle eagerly; "indeed, dear Mrs. Grey, 
mamma allows me to go everywhere with Arthur. She has 
full confidence in him." 

"And Arthur?" 

" Is my cousin. You saw him the other day. He is wait- 
ing for me now." In spite of herself Addle blushed as she 
spoke. 

Margaret looked at her in some surprise, but the ingenuous 
young face told its own tale. In her turn she was filled with 
admiration and love. She held out her hand. "Thank you," 
she said. That was all for a moment, as the tears were ready 
to flow ; then after a pause, " What you have seen to-day will 
tell you more eloquently than I could that neither you nor your 
friends need have any fear on my account. If Arthur should 
become unmanageable at any future time, send him to me ; I 
promise to cure him. And now, dear, I suppose we must be 
setting to work ; I will accept your kind oflfer : it seems, after 
all, the best course to pursue." 

It was done without the slightest awkwardness. 

Margaret might have been a queen accepting a favor from 
one of her courtiers, and it was in this light that Ad^e 



76 CHASTE AS ICE. PURE AS SNOW. 

thought of the service she was rendering to her friend, for 
Margaret was, in her young, inexperienced eyes, a very queen 
by means of her beauty and charm. And then they set 
themselves to work without further delay. In a very few 
moments Margaret's hasty toilette was complete — a black 
shawl, the little close bonnet, a crape veil, the bright Indian 
scarf, from which she did not seem to care to separate herself, 
a tiny morocco-leather case, which might contain valuables 
of some kind, and a carpet-bag, which by Ad^le's aid had 
been hastily filled with a few necessaries, — ^these were all; 
then the boxes were locked and labelled, the landlady's 
account was settled, and orders given to her to keep the boxes 
until they should be called for, Ad^le promising that Arthur 
should perform this little service. It did not take very 
long. Ad^le had scarcely been half an hour in the house 
when tbev left it together, Margaret closely veiled and not 
venturing to look around, Ad^le gazing right and left to as- 
sure herself that they were not followed. Not a person 
was in sight on either side of the way, and she breathed more 
freely. 

Arthur meanwhile had been pacing the thoroughfare upon 
which the street in which Mrs. Grey had been lodging opened 
out. He was not very impatient, for his head had been full 
of Margaret; he had been forming and reforming, always 
unsuccessfully to himself, her image in his brain, and dream- 
ing all kinds of mad dreams about the services he would 
render her in the future, and the sweet returns of love and 
gratitude he might be blest enough to gain. Adele's concur- 
rence in his plans was, he felt, a grand step in the right 
direction ; thenceforth everything would go swimmingly, for 
it was not possible that she could set aside Adele's ofiered 
friendship — indeed, the very length of time that was elapsing 
was a favorable sign. 

But, not even in his wildest dreams, had he imagined that 
he should see her again that very day, that the means of do- 
ing her a service would immediately be put into his hands ; 
when, therefore, he saw two ladies instead of one emerging 
from street, he was beyond measure astonished. 

They stoppti to let him reach them, and, rather em- 
barrassed through all his delight, h< "jffered his greeting 



FLIGHT. 77 

to Margaret Grey. She was herself calm and quiet, only 
the heightened color in her beautiful face betraying in any 
way a sign of her recent emotion. 

Adele was by far the more excited of the two. " Fetch il « 
carriage, Arthur," she said, " as quickly as ever you can. 
We shall follow slowly to the place where we left it ; you can 
come back with it to meet us. Don't stop to ask why, like a 
good old fellow. There's no time to lose." 

It was evidently for Margaret, so Arthur started off at such 
headlong speed that many of the foot-passengers stood still to 
look after him, wondering at his excitement. If some of his 
languid friends in that other world, London of the West, could 
have seen him, I greatly fear he would have been degraded 
for ever in their estimation ; undue activity or a public dis- 
play of ultra eagerness is not among the list of fashionable 
failings ; in fact, it is bad form. But Arthur did not think 
at the moment of his position in the world of fashion, and it 
was not likely that any of his friends would have been be- 
nighted enough to put such a space as that which separates 
Islington from Hyde Park between themselves and their 
daily haunts. 

Breathless he hailed the coachman, who crossed the street 
with unusual alacrity. He could only imagine from Mr. 
Arthur's state of excitement that Miss Adele had fallen down 
in a fit or that some similar misfortune had happened. He 
was an old servant, and took, as he often said in the servants' 
hall, " a deep hinterest in the family." 

" Nothing wrong sir, I 'ope," he said, stooping down confi- 
dentially from his exalted position on the top of the coach- 
box. 

" No," replied Arthur impatiently. " Drive me along this 
road until I tell you to stop." 

He jumped in, and the mystified coachman obeyed, stopping 
instinctively at the sight of his young mistress with a person 
carrying a carpet-bag. Even if Arthur had not used the 
check-string vigorously, astonishment would have brought 
the worthy man to a stand-still. Imagination was not his 
strong point, and it was difficult for him even to conceive 
what all this meant. 

"The Great Northern Station, and then home," said AdMe, 



78 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

not wishing to mystify him too far ; " and please drive 
quickly." 

He obeyed, and as easily and rapidly they drove along the 
streets Margaret leant back among the cushions, closed her 
eyes and sighed deeply. It was a sigh of intense relief. 
"To-morrow," she said — "to-morrow I shall be at home." 

Very little more passed between the three until the 
carriage stopped before the station ; there Adele held out her 
hand very reluctantly. " I am afraid I must say good-bye," 
she said gently ; " I ought to be at home. Mamma will be 
expecting me. I shall leave Arthur to take care of you and 
see you into your carriage." With a glance Margaret thanked 
Ad^le for her noble trustfulness. 

" We shall meet again ?" said the young girl earnestly. 

" I trust so, dear ; you know my address. If anything should 
bring you in my direction I shall be only too delighted to 
see you ; but," and her voice grew low and tender, " if we 
never should meet again, remember this — I shall never cease 
to thank you in my heart for the way in which you have acted 
to-day." 

She had got out of the carriage and was standing near the 
door, one hand still in Adele's, who seemed to wish to retain 
it to the last moment. Arthur was beside them, looking in- 
terested but helpless, and once more tempted to indulge in that 
very vain and foolish wish that Providence had made him a 
woman. 

Here was his cousin already Margaret Grey's dear friend : 
he was nothing to her — a lacquey who might be permitted to 
see after luggage, to get her ticket, to wait upon her. Noth- 
ing! Was that nothing? he asked himself suddenly as Adele 
closed the carriage door, waved her last farewell and left him 
alone with Margaret in the busy station. Alone and in a 
crowd, he her protector, she dependent upon him, he was a 
man at once, gentle, thoughtful, considerate, ready for any 
emergency. Only there was one drawback. All his atten- 
tions were received so pleasantly, in such a matter-of-fact way 
— ^not as a something that was offered personally, a tribute of 
homage to her whom he admired above all other women, but 
ua the most commonplace thing in the world, a lady's right 



FLIGHT. 79 

from the gentleman who has taken upon hinjself the task of 
helping her. 

The fact was that Margaret Grey knew more of the world 
than her shabby black dress and general want of style might 
have seemed to indicate. Certain it is that she had hit upon 
the very best method of keeping her young knight in his true 
place. ^ 

His heart was burning to show in some way the enthusiasm 
that devoured' him as he stood by her side on the platform, 
only venturing to glance at her furtively from time to time, 
but abundantly laden with her small items of property, of 
all of which she had allowed him to possess himself without 
the smallest demur. None of this did he dare to show. He 
could feel in anticipation the look of quiet surprise with 
which she Avould greet any presumptuous speech. 

Curious glances were cast on them by those who were not 
too busy in the important stages of arrival and departure to 
give a thought to anything but their own concerns, for Mar- 
garet was one of those women who always attract notice, and 
once or twice, when she became conscious of such observation, 
Arthur saw that she started painfully and turned to scan the 
watcher. He cast his scowls to the right hand and to the 
left, being quite ready to pick a quarrel with any one for the 
sake of his divinity ; but his scowls were shed abroad in vain ; 
they did not seem to have the slightest effect upon the situa- 
tion, and at last all necessity for such exercise of his faculties 
was over. The train, longed for so eagerly by the one, 
dreaded by the other of these two companions of an hour, 
came slowly, with majestic quiet, into the station ; porters, 
with anything but majestic quiet, began to bundle and bustle 
the unfortunate luggage into the vans, lady passengers rushed 
madly from various corners of the station, gentlemen passen- 
gers walked leisurely with a defiant look at the engine (it 
could not start without them) from the refreshment-rooms, 
where they had been taking in a stock of strength that might 
enable them to live through the ennui of a six hours' journey; 
parties that were about to part gathered woefully together, 
tears in the eyes of some, an appearance of put-on sadness, 
covering satisfaction, in the faces of others, and sounding 



80 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

along the line came the voice of the stately guard, " Take 
your places, ladies and gentlemen." 

Then Margaret put out her hand. They had stopped to- 
gether before a second-class carriage, in which, with all the 
deference of a young courtier, Arthur had taken her seat, 
arranged her parcels, placed everything she might need within 
her reach, even to the little packet of delicate ham sandwiches, 
flask of sherry and magazine of light reading which he had 
obtained surreptitiously to add to her comfort during the 
journey. 

She smiled when she got in and saw what he had done. 
" Thank you," she said, still in the same easy, pleasant way, 
a queen addressing her subject ; " I chose my knight well ; 
and now good-bye. Tell your cousin that I will send her a 
few lines to let her know of my safe arrival." 

Arthur pressed the hand she held out to him. He could 
not resist it, and then, shriek ! puff! thfe waving of a flag, 
and the train was gone, carrying her away from his lingering 
gaze. He turned aside with a sigh and a singular contrac- 
tion of heart ; she, looking round at his thoughtful arrange- 
ments, smiled faintly, then, leaning back on the hard seat, 
closed her eyes and murmured almost audibly, " Thank God! 
escaped !" 

Her thanksgiving, perhaps, Avas premature, for in her late 
dwelling-place this was what was happening in the mean time. 

She and Adele had scarcely reached the top of street 

before the landlady, anxious to lose no time, ordered " Apart- 
ments" to be hoisted in its usual place, the front-parlor window. 

A tall, dark-looking man, who was walking in a leisurely 
manner down the street with a cigar in his mouth, stopped 
suddenly and looked at it with some attention. From below 
the landlady looked at him, and feeling his earnestness 
prophetic arrayed herself hastily in clean cap and apron, and 
smoothed from her brow the unquiet look which Betsy's awk- 
wardness had caused. She did not get herself up in vain ; he 
rang the bell and asked to see her rooms. 

The landlady dropped a curtsey. This was a grand-looking 
gentleman in her opinion, with a fine commanding manner — 
" looked a militairy hofficer retired," she said afterward to a 
neighbor, describing the interview. " They're not in the best 



FLIGHT. 81 

of border, sir," she said deprecatingly — " not for a gentleman 
the likes of you to see ; but there," fearful of losing a lodger, 
" it hain't all gold as glitters, and if so be has you'll make 
hallowances, the lady — quite a lady and lived very quiet, not 
gone above half an hour — says she, a going out of that door, 
and a givin' me of her hand — " 

" Show me the rooms as they are," broke in the gentleman, 
frowning with impatience ; but even this did not check the 
flow of the landlady's eloquence. 

" The lady as has gone — " she began. 

" Show me the rooms, woman, without any more jabber," 
interrupted he so fiercely that, as Mrs. Jones said afterward 
to a neighbor, "she was all of a tremble, and her feet as 
nigh as possible giv' way under her from fright." 

She did not hazard another remark, but thrcAV open the 
door of Margaret's sitting-room, still warm, as it were, with 
the evidences of her presence. The sight appeared to excite 
the gentleman ; he breathed hard and his eyes sparkled ; 
then, not appearing to notice the landlady, who stood respect- 
fully in the doorway, he cast round the room one searching 
glance. 

It seemed to satisfy him. He turned to the landlady, took 
out his pocket-book and pencil, as if to make a note of her 
answers, and asked, " Your name, Mrs. — " 

" Jones, sir, at your service," she answered, curtseying. 

" Mrs. Jones ? ah !" He wrote down something in hia 
pocket-book, then looked at her again : " Your rent ?" 

" Thirty shillin's hand hextras," she replied, audaciously 
clapping on ten shillings for the military appearance. 

" Ah !" he answered once more, nothing else ; no bargain- 
ing, aa Mrs. Jones informed her next-door neighbor, nothing 
of the kind ; he only shut up his pocket-book with a snap 
and turned aside, apparently quite satisfied. Mrs. Jones 
Haltered herself that his satisfaction arose from prepossession 
with her rooms and her personal appearance. Quite other 
was the consideration that caused the prospective lodger such 
a pleasant glow of satisfaction. 

Something indeed was written down in his note-book by 
that busy-looking pencil. It was not Mrs. Jones's name and 
address, nor even her exceedingly moderate terms. 



82 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

If the solitary lady who was leaving London that day ti 
hide her sorrow and loneliness could only have known wliat 
was written there, her satisfaction would have flown, for she 
had left her secret behind her, tacked in large letters to the 
boxes that were to follow her the next day, and the secret 
had been transferred to the pocket-book of the man she 
thought she had escaped. 

Poor Adele's diplomacy ! It had given way at only one 
point, but unhappily that point was all important. 



CHAPTER XIII. 
LESSONS IN WORLD -WISDOM. 

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart ; 
They were dangerous guides, the feelings : she herself was not exempt, 

** Well, Adele, what have you done with Arthur ?" 

The speaker was a comely, elderly lady who had sailed, 
in the full magnificence of brocade and lace, into the dining- 
room of her handsome house. A substantial lunch was on 
the table, an obsequious butler was in waiting, a fair-haired 
girl was seated in one of the arm-chairs, her head resting on 
her hand. 

At the sound of her mother's voice she looked up. " Drop- 
ped him en route, mamma," she said pleasantly. 

" And why did you not bring him in ?" 

" He had business, I believe, in town." 

"Business, indeed! You should be his first business. 
Mark my words. Addle — though it seems impossible to instill 
worldly wisdom into your brain — ^boys are volatile and require 
keeping in hand. A girl ought to be tolerably exigeante if 
ijhe would either make or keep a conquest, especially when a 
boy of Arthur's age and character is in question." Then to 
the butler : " Take the covers, James ; after that you can go 
do\Mi «tairs. Miss Churchill and I will wait upon ourselves 
to-day. One always forgets James," she continued as he re- 
tired, "he is so quiet and unobtrusive; but then — faithful 



LESSONS IN WORLD -WISDOM. 83 

creature ! — I feel very sure he could make no mischief of 
anything he hears." 

" I wish, all the same, mamma," said Ad^le rather fret- 
fully, " that you would not always talk of my affairs and 
Arthur's before the servants. Burton, James, Elizabeth, it 
seems not to matter at all before which of them you speak." 

" My dear AdMe, you are a child. These people know 
your character and mine, and are pretty well acquainted with 
all our affairs, without our taking the trouble of informing 
them. I wonder who leaves Arthur's letters about some- 
times." 

" Arthur's letters ?" Ad^le shrugged her shoulders almost 
imperceptibly. " All the world is at liberty to see them." 

" There it is again, my dear ; we return to the subject we 
were discussing a few minutes ago. "When do you intend to 
make a lover of your cousin ? You know you cannot possibly 
remain in this brother-and-sisterly stage. You must give 
him one or two lessons or he'll slip through your fingers yet." 

Ad^le was accustomed to her mother's style of conversa- 
tion, so it did not particularly shock her ; she only smiled 
rather strangely: "Arthur wants no lessons from me, 
mamma." 

" Ah ! then you are further advanced than I thought ; but 
really, Ad^le, you have been brought up so simply I wonder 
sometimes if you know at all what it means to have a lover. 
I was very different with my first lover, a cousin too, though 
we didn't marry after all. A very good thing ; he was poor 
and idle: I should have been a wretched woman. Now, 
Arthur is well off, and not at all extravagant; no strong 
tastes either; just the kind of man whom a woman can 
mould to her will ; but then she must know how, and I fear, 
Adele, you are a sad baby in these matters." 

"It's not for want of instruction, mamma," said Ad^le 
rather maliciously. 

But the good-natured Mrs. Churchill scarcely saw the point 
of her daughter's satire. " You are right," she said. " I 
have done my vet'y best to instill into your mind some know- 
ledge of the world you live in, AdMe. I considered it a duty," 
she sighed faintly. " Had your poor father been alive, the 
caae might have been different. Women who are thrown on 



84 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

their own resources, like you and me, my child, miLst be equal 
to the task of taking care of themselves." 

It was a task in which, apparently, Mrs. Churchill had 
never failed : she did not certainly look the worse for care 
and anxiety. She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes — a 
habit, simply, for not the faintest moisture was there to re- 
move, but to mention the departed Mr. Churchill without 
paying this tribute of regard to his dear memory would have 
been most unseemly. A pause for this trivial operation then 
Mrs. Churchill continued : " I have wished for some time to 
speak to you about this matter, Adele. I have managed for 
you so far ; I can do so no further." 

The last words seemed to astonish the young girl. She 
looked up : " You have managed, mamma ? What can you 
mean ?" 

Why, little goose ! to whom do you think you owe your 
lover ? Not to Arthur, certainly. He would have gone on 
droning about the house for ever, without the slightest con- 
BJderation for your feelings or mine, engrossing you and shut- 
ting out others. I brought him to book and showed him his 
duty." (The fond mother showed her white teeth at the re- 
membrance.) " When they were all laying themselves out to 
entrap him, too ! Lady Lacy and her pretty nieces, Mrs. 
Campbell and her ugly daughters ; even gaunt Mr. Godol- 
phiu, with that extensive motherless child of his. Ha! ha ! 
it was too good !" 

But Adele did not seem to join in her mother's mirth. 
She had dropped her knife and fork in a kind of despair, 
while a sudden pallor, quickly succeeded by a vivid flush, 
showed her distress. 

" Good gracious, child! what is wrong?" cried her mother. 

Her answer was given through a flood of tears: "Oh, 
mamma! mamma! how could you? And I was so happy, 
and I thought he liked me a little — only a very little — and 
that, in spite of everything, it might be all right some day ? 
Now — now — *' 

The last part of the sentence was lost in the folds of hei 
pocket-handkerchief. 

Poor Adele was rather upset with the events of the mr)rn- 
ing, following as they did upon the knowledge of what she 



A LESSON IN WORLD-WJSDOM. S5 

looked upon as Arthur's desertion ; to hear now that even 
their engagement, in which she had rejoiced as a proof of 
his real affection for her, as a kind of pledge for his return, 
was due not to his own unbiassed freedom of choice, but to 
her mother's machinations, — this was a kind of finishing- 
stroke to her misfortunes. She continued to sob, somewhat 
to her mother's annoyance. 

"What a perfect baby you are still. Addle!" she said; 
" it's well, after all, that I sent James out of the room. 
Come, dry up your eyes, and tell me what is the meaning 
of this. To say that anything I told you just now could 
have caused such an outburst is perfectly absurd. What 
has Arthur been saying or doing? I shall have to take 
him in hand," 

Addle lifted up her glistening eyes and carmine cheeks 
from the grateful shade of her pocket-handkerchief. " You 
must do nothing of the kind, mamma," she said indignantly 
— she was quite unlike herself for the moment — " you have 
done mischief enough already." 

" Mischief enough !" Mrs. Churchill's glass paused half- 
way between the table and her lips; she was absolutely petri- 
fied with surprise. Adele was an only daughter, and some- 
thing of a spoilt child ; but hitherto she had always been 
gentle and obedient, for she was naturally docile ; then she 
•and her mother had such different tastes that their wills very 
seldom clashed. This vigorous assertion of personality was 
a new thing, and for the moment clever, good-natured Mrs, 
Churchill, with all the knowledge of human nature upon 
which she plumed herself, scarcely knew how to treat it. 

"This is what comes of romantic notions," she said se- 
verely. " I always thought the poetry-reading bad ; if this 
kind of thing goes on I shall have to put a stop to it alto- 
gether. Now-a-days it seems to be the idea for young ladies 
and gentlemen to fall desperately in love, indulge in pretty 
pcetic love-scenes and do a little wasting away for the benefit 
of one another, I suppose something of this has got into 
your silly little head. Addle. You and Arthur should have 
been moved spontaneously to fall into one another's arms, 
like the hero and heroine of a play. Bah, child! there's a 
behind-the-scenes to life as well as the stage, and lovers are 



86 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

generally only puppets ; they act the drama and other people 
pull the strings. Don't look so very Avoebegone : I tell you 
more than half the marriages in the world would never have 
taken place without some such helping hand as mine. You 
ought to be grateful instead of indignant." 

Ad^le had dried her eyes. She was rather ashamed of 
her outburst; she ought to have known long ago that her 
mother's matter-of-fact nature and keen common sense would 
never chime in with her own ultra-refined, high-flown notions 
of life and action ; and hers, after all, were the ideas of a 
young girl to whom the great world was still a land of visions 
and dreams; her mother's were those of a woman who 
knew something of the world, who had passed through 
very varied experiences, who, with all her good-nature — ■ 
for Mrs. Churchill was what might have been called a com- 
fortable matron — had grown a little hard and unsympa- 
thetic by reason of the rubs and raps she had encountered, 
making some of her fine gold dim. 

"We need not discuss the matter," said Adele ; " what is 
done is done, and after all perhaps it makes very little dif- 
ference in the end. I am sorry if I was rude to you, mam- 
ma, as no doubt you do what you think best for me ; but in 
these matters I do wish that you would let me have some 
voice. If I had known Arthur's proposal was brought 
about by you, I should have certainly refused him without 
any hesitation." 

"So I supposed, my dear; therefore I was wise enough 
not to let either of the wise young people see my hand. 
Why, you romantic child ! without me you would soon float 
on to misery. Grand notions are all very well in their way, 
but they can scarcely carry one through the world with any 
satisfaction to one's self, Adele ; you'll find that out sooner or 
later. But come, enough of worldly wisdom for one <lay. 
Wash your eyes and make yourself look nice; I want you 
tO pay some visits with me this afternoon." 

Poor little Addle ! she obeyed, but it was with a languid 
step. A few days before her life had been all sunshine; 
her love, her pleasant tastes, her bright hopes — everything 
had combined to make her happy; now, a change seemed 
impending — unreality was around her ; what she had thought 



A LESSON IN WORLD-WISDOM. 87 

to be a firm standing-point turned out only shifting quick- 
sands ; the love -was departing, and the revelation of how it 
had come robbed its past of all charm ; even her pleasant 
tastes seemed deceptive, for if her mother's views of life 
were correct, farewell to the Faerie Queene, farewell to poetic 
imagery : it was the mirage that betrays the unwary soul, 
and in spite of the poet's vision the sad knowledge which 
that day's glimpse of another life had brought showed tor 
clearly that beauty and joy were only too often divorced. 

Adele appeared in the drawing-room in the course of half 
an hour dressed in pale silk, a rose-colored bonnet crowning 
her fair hair and pink-tinted gloves on her small hands, but 
nothing for the moment could remove the gloomy veil through 
which she viewed life and its surroundings. 

Her mother was obliged to reprove her a little sharply. 
" My dear Adele," she said as they left one of the houses to 
which they had been bound, "you must really make an effort 
to be more agreeable and sprightly; melancholy does not suit 
you. Dark girls, with chiselled features and creamy com- 
plexions, may be allowed to move through society like beau- 
tiful mutes, but with golden hair and bright blue eyes like 
yours vivacity, let me tell you, is the only r61e. Sulking 
makes you look absolutely plain." 

No girl likes to look " absolutely plain," and although Adele 
loudly disclaimed any sort of regard for what would or would 
not suit her style, she made an effort, and that evening Ar- 
thur, who came back, pale and exhausted, from the parting 
scene at the station, and who looked to Adele for sympathy, 
was rather hurt with what he was pleased to term her frivol- 
ity. Young men are so selfish ! 

Mrs. Churchill saw the little by-play — Ad^le's forced gay- 
ety, Arthur's sentimental-looking eyes following her inquir- 
ingly, and somewhat reproachfully, round the room. She 
congratulated herself on the success of her lesson. 



88 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SSOW. 

CHAPTER XIV. 
LAURA. 

Thou art a dew-drop which the morn brings forth, 
Not framed to undergo unkindly shocks, 
Or to be trailed along the soiling tarth — 
A gem that glitters while it lives. 

Margaret was at home. In a little village on the coast 
of Yorkshire, far from any town, not fashionable even in the 
season, and somewhat dull at all times, was the cottage to be 
found which she fondly looked upon as home. The village 
consisted of one street running up into the land, where 
butcher and baker and grocer, who all of them sold a medley 
of articles, displayed their small wares ; a collection of fisher- 
huts on the coast, and some few respectable little houses, 
whitewashed and green-shuttered, which were only tenanted 
in the summer months. It was not even a particularly pretty 
place. Of course there was the sea, the grand wide ocean, 
stretching its interminable breadths away to the horizon, and 
it crept up upon yellow sands that were a perfect delight to 
the eye and to the feet, they were so bright and clean and 
smooth. But for this the scenery was somewhat monotonous; 
no mountains or hilly grounds were to be seen far or near, save, 
indeed, the few sand-cliffs that rose up gradually from the 
borders of the sea to a vast table-land of moor and meadow, 
stretching into the distance with scarcely a tree to break the 
line. A few huge boulders carved by time and water into 
fantastic shapes, a little scanty herbage on the sand-hills, some 
stunted shrubs and trailing yellow flowers, — these were all 
that broke the monotony of sea and moor ; in fact, it was a 
desolate place, but its desolation in no way resembled that of 
a city like London, the dreary monotony of a human desert. 
'It was Nature's desolation, grand and weird, and, to the soul 
that could understand, full of ever-varied mystery and 
charic. 

The sunrise over the moor when, itself purple with the rich 
tints of autumn coloring, it blushed into mistlike dreamy 
splendor ; the mellower sunset over the ocean, and after the 



LAURA. 89 

suusel the pale streaks of horizon-liglit andihe broad ribbona 
of silvery moonbeams ; the black mystery of a winter night, 
space above, space around, space infinite on every side ; the 
clash and flash of foam-crowned waves shining through the 
* darkness, — these were some of the charms this little seaside 
village possessed, these were what Margaret had missed in her 
miserable visit to great, lonely London. She slept at a hotel 
in York on the first night after leaving town. On the next 
day, partly by rail, partly by carriage, she reached her own 
home. 

They did not expect her. She wondered plaintively as she 
drove in the little chaise, hired at the nearest station, along 
the low road that skirted the sea, whether her little Laura 
would be pleased to see her again — would have found the 
time long without her. Laura was not so dear to her mother 
as she might have been, but she was her only tie to life, the 
one creature who was dependent on her, to whom she was, in 
a certain sense, a necessity. In the course of that long drive 
Margaret began to reproach herself for having loved her child 
so little. Her heart yearned over the tiny creature whose 
fate was bound up with her own, fatherless, or worse than 
fatherless, in the tender dawning of life — mysteries around 
her that her poor little soul might perhaps already be trying 
to fathom, and trying in vain ; for, as Margaret recalled ^vith 
a sudden pang, it was not an ordinary child's soul that had 
looked at her once or twice out of Laura's dark, pensive eye. 
It was a soul upon which the shadow seemed to have fallen — 
the shadow that so early falls upon some, chilling their life 
in its first glad spring. Margaret had shrunk from looking 
into this mystery ; she had answered the inquiring earnestness 
with which her little daughter had seemed to look into her 
sadness by sweetmeats, toys and diversions, and the child had 
gone back upon herself, dreaming her dreams alone. 

Perhaps it is little known in the wise, busy world of grown- 
up people how keen and sensitive are the sympathies and 
feelings of a child, how easily the little soul can be driven in 
upon itself, and in some cases, rare it may be, how great the 
suffering that follows. 

Margaret had a vague consciousness of all this, but there 
was something so bitter in her sadness that it shrank even 



90 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

from the light touch of her child, and then the dark, pensive 
eyes that sometimes looked so melancholy under their deep 
fringe veiled a memory — a memory that cut and wounded, 
and that in some moods she felt herself absolutely powerless 
to bear. So had another pair of eyes, dark too, and wistful * 
and infinitely sad, looked out at her on a stormy night lonj^ 
ago — the night when her trouble had begun. Long ago- — it 
looked long ago, yet as mortals reckon time perhaps it could 
only have been said to be short — one, two, three, four long 
years. The remembrance of that strange sadness in her little 
daughter's face had brought Margaret to chis again, as what 
did not? She reckoned the time and marvelled at its flight. 

As she pondered the little chaise progressed, with abundant 
slacking of the whip and plunges forward and vigorous shouts 
from the boy-driver, and scarcely a corresponding rate of speed, 
for Middlethorpe was an out-of-the-way village, and no very 
stately vehicle of the hired species would have been permitted, 
under some very large gratuity, to explore its wilds. Even- 
ing was beginning to fall before the outskirts of the village 
had been sighted, and between the jolting of the carriage, the 
energy of the driver and the haunting thoughts that tor- 
mented her, Margaret began to feel that any change would 
be a relief. 

Her little cottage was rather out of the village. It lay at 
some little distance, near the edge of one of the sandhills. 
When they entered the village she stopped her driver and 
told him to take on her carpet-bag ; she would do the re- 
mainder of the way on foot. The boy listened to her direc- 
tions, nodded his head good-humoredly, and leaving her upon 
the sands, started off in the direction indicated — to a little 
white point at some distance reached by a road winding up 
through the village. Margaret proceeded leisurely along the 
coast toward a narrow path that led up the cliff to her cottage 
by a nearer way. 

She gazed over the wide sea, for the gray which had been 
its abiding characteristic through the not very brilliant May 
day was blushing gradually into golden brightness under the 
magic touch of sunset, and Margaret paused in the full enjoy- 
ment of its rich coloring. Then, with the light still in hei 
eyes, she looked landward on to the sandhills. 



LAUBA. 91 

There was a little figure crouching under one of them, evi- 
dently that of a child, and a child in sorrow, for the face was 
hidden by a pair of tiny hands and the little frame was 
shaken with sobs. It looked like a blot in the dazzle the sun- 
Bet radiance had cast over Margaret's sight. But the child 
was at her feet ; her heart was moved for its little trouble. 
She stooped to ask about the sorrow, and with a sudden shock 
recognized in the weeping little one her own Laura. The 
child's dress was in disorder ; the pretty, fair hair was uncov- 
ered by hat or bonnet and flying wildly over her face and 
neck ; her cheeks were stained with tears which seemed to 
have been flowing abundantly ; her little hands were red and 
sore. 

She looked up, and a faint smile came into her weary little 
face as she recognized her mother. "I thought you were 
never coming back, mamma," she said in a voice so sad and 
low that it pierced her mother's heart. " I am glad you're 
come, because now perhaps I sha'n't always be naughty." 

"Naughty! my little Laura naughty? Who says so?" 
The tears were in Margaret's eyes, and a passion of penitence 
and love was welling up in her heart. It was like the open- 
ing of a sealed-up fountain. All the sweet motherliness that 
untoward circumstances seemed to have stifled in Margaret's 
heart awoke suddenly at the sight of her daughter's sorrow. 
She kissed the little flushed face, smoothed back the disor- 
dered hair, and lulled the child to rest in her arms with the 
pretty baby-language that mothers know. And at first the 
little Laura looked surprised, then her tears ceased, she 
clasped her arms round her mother's neck, and into the dark, 
wide-open, pensive eyes there came a look of rest. 

So they remained for a few moments — the mother and the 
child, with the soft, cool yellow sand around them and the 
westering seas before them ; Margaret thinking only of these 
little clinging arms, of this sweet child-love — of the blessing 
that was still left her ; the little one rejoicing, with the unrea- 
sonable delight of childhood, in the soft pressure of her 
mother's arms. She had always been given a morning and 
evening kiss, but this warm, protecting tenderness was, she 
could not tell why, something new to her. 

She looked up languidly at last from her mother's breast 



d2 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

where her head had been resting. " Jane says I've been very 
naughty, mamma," she murmured ; " she whipped me for tell- 
ing a story, but I know I didn't take the sugar." 

Laura's tears began to break out afresh at the remem- 
brance, but her little simple story had aroused her mother, 
and indignation began to mingle with sorrow in her heart. 
She started up ; " Who whipped you, Laura ? Jane ? How 
could she have dared to do such a thing ? There ! there ! my 
sweet," for her vehemence had alarmed the child, " dry your 
eyes. Mamma will never leave her little darling again ; no 
one else shall have anything to do with Laura." 

Laura's tears gave place to a smile of contentment. " Yes, 
mamma dear, it will be nice. I cried the day you went to 
London, a long time ago, and Jane said it was naughty, and 
she locked the door and left me by myself — oh, siich a long 
time ! And she said you had gone away because I was tire- 
some, and you didn't love me one little bit ; and I thought" — 
Laura wound her arms tightly round her mother's neck — " I 
thought perhaps you'd never come back, and I was always to 
stay with Jane. And oh, mamma, I was looking at the sea 
to-night — you know gardener's little boy fell in, and when he 
came out I saw him ; he was white and quite cold, and they 
put him in the churchyard — and I thought it would be better 
to fall in like poor little Jimmy than to live with Jane." 

" Poor little darling !" Margaret's tears were flowing fast. 
She rose from her seat, but she would not loosen the pressure 
of those tiny arms. 

Laura put her hand up to her mother's face : " Mamma, 
you're crying now. Is it about Jane ? Poor mamma ! never 
mind." 

" Mamma is crying because they told her little daughter 
such dreadful things," said Margaret as quietly as she could. 
" Listen, my child : you must never believe them, I love my 
Laura more than I can say. You are all that is left me, 
iear. It was for you I went to London, that you might grow 
up wise and good, and learn like other little girls ; and I Avas 
going to such a wretched, miserable place or I would have 
taken my child with me ; but I will never leave her behind 
again, wherever I may go." 

Perfectly satisfied and with a little sigh of full content. 



LAURA. 93 

liRura put down her head again, and so they went back to 
the house, the child in her mother's arms. 

Jane Rodgers met them on the threshold of the front door. 
She had looked forward to something like this when the boy 
had arrived with the carpet-bag, notifying that the mistress 
was to follow, and she blamed herself severely for her short- 
sightedness, which had arisen in this way. 

She had been shrewd enough to see that although Mrs. 
Grey never neglected her daughter, yet there was none of 
that warm devotion which mothers so often cherish for an 
only child ; in fact, that the very presence of her little one 
was sometimes a burden to her. The circumstances of her 
lodger being peculiar and utterly unknown, so far as she 
could learn, to any of her neighbors, Jane had come to cer- 
tain conclusions not very creditable to her ordinary good 
sense or knowledge of human nature. When, therefore, for 
three weeks Mrs. Grey had remained absent from her 
daughter, although her rent was fully paid up, and amply 
sufficient had been left for the little Laura's maintenance, 
Jane Rodgers, acting on her previous supposition, had come 
to this conclusion : " The mother had left her child altogether. 
It would fall to her " (Jane Rodgers's) " lot to take care of 
her and bring her up." 

Now, Jane was by no means a cruel woman. Had any 
one told her that even under such untoward circumstances 
she could have been absolutely unkind to any child of seven 
years old, she would have indignantly repelled the accusa 
tion. But Jane was a scrupulously conscientious woman 
(that is, she thought herself so); she was unmarried, and 
hard by nature. She had been a fine-looking girl in her 
youth — had been disappointed in love, and as a domestic 
servant had perhaps had her full share of the temptations 
incident to her position. She had preserved her respecta- 
bility, saved her money, and some years before the time 
when my story opens had returned to her native village, the 
owner of a small furnished house. Her living she was 
given in return for the service she rendered, and the rent 
of the house was ample to keep her in clothes and pocket- 
money, with a small sum accumulatinng year by year at the 
savings bank. 



«4 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Jane was a highly respectable person, and in this consisted 
her pride. How people could ever be brought into the world 
the wrong way, or how the hundred and one wicked actions 
so common in all societies, high and low, could ever come to 
be committed, she professed herself wholly unable to under- 
stand. She had no sympathy for the tempted: her theory^ 
was, that if they suffered in consequence of error, so much 
the better — it served them right. 

When, therefore, the little Laura was left on her hands — 
for Mrs. Grey had scarcely been gone a week before Jane 
had made up her mind that she would never return — a strict 
and stem course of education was begun. That evil was 
very specially rooted in the heart of her self-imposed charge 
was Jane's theory — that no indulgence should ever be per- 
mitted her was the fit corrective. Laura very naturally 
resented this treatment. She had been allowed to wander 
about as she liked; she had never in her life been struck, 
and seldom punished. When she found herself watched, 
corrected and snapped-up — her little sayings, that had been 
admired and thought clever, snubbed and reproved — Laura 
became first very angry, and then very miserable. The 
anger was punished by whipping and bed — such perfectly 
new experiences to the lonely child that her little heart 
throbbed with the agony of humiliation ; the misery was 
treated as sulkiness, and at last poor little Laura began to 
think it was all true. As she plaintively said to her mother, 
she was always naughty. 

Jane had done it in good faith. She thought she was 
acting well, taking a mother's part with the child — that when 
the evil in her heart had been rooted out by strict discipline, 
she might in spite of her pretty face and form, and the bad 
precedent of a mother whose antecedents were not precisely 
known, turn out a good woman and a useful member of so- 
ciety. 

In the mean time she took the child into her own part of 
the house, cleaned out Mrs. Grey's apartments, and was 
ready to offer them in the summer time on moderate terms 
to that portion of the bathing public who might find Middle- 
thorpe a desirable watering-place. 

These being her plans and ideas, the arrival of the boy 



LA URA. 96 

and carpet-bag on this May evening was somewhat discon- 
certing to Jane Rodgers. The child was out sulking. She 
was ready with a rod in pickle, as she would have said, to 
chastise her for running away without iaat or bonnet after 
she had been ordered to her room ; but Mrs. Grey, should 
she find her on the sands, might probably fail to take Jane's 
view of matters. 

There would be time for revelations too, and Jane could 
scarcely explain to her lodger all the reasons that had moved 
her to the mode of treatment she had employed with her 
daughter in her absence. However, matters being so, it was 
best to put a bold face on them. Jane prided herself on her 
independence, Mrs. Grey was certainly a yearly lodger — a 
rare kind of article at the seaside, and especially at Middle- 
thorpe ; still, if she should choose to take ofience she might 

go- 
None of these latter reflections appeared in her face as she 
went forward to meet Mrs. Grey, white-capped and aproned, 
the very picture of quiet respectability. 

"Glad to see you back, ma'am," she said respectfully, 
"and sorry you should find Miss Laura in such a plight. 
She run out when my back was turned. I was in such a fid- 
get about putting on my bonnet to look after her, when — " 

" That will do, Jane," said Margaret quietly. " Bring up 
our tea and pay the boy. When I have put Miss Laura to 
bed I will speak to you in the parlor." 
"As you please, ma'am." 

Jane turned away with a slight toss of the head, quite de- 
termined to let her lodger go. She was not a servant, she 
said to herself, to be treated in such a way. But the sight of 
her comfortable kitchen and the hour of delay brought calmer 
and more prudent thoughts to Jane's mind. Instinctively she 
recalled the fate of Mrs. Brown and Miss Simpson, two ladies 
of her calling, who, after trying in vain to make a living out 
of their houses, had been obliged finally to sell their furniture 
and take to service again ; Mrs. Short, who let, indeed, in the 
summer, but generally to large families, and had her things 
knocked about in such a way that no charge for breakages 
could cover the necessary outlay which followed their de- 
parture ; Mrs. Dodd, who had taken in unaware a lady re- 



96 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

covering from the small-pox, and whose servant had taken 
the disease, thus necessitating a general turn-out and white- 
washing before her rooms could be considered habitable. 

Whatever the antecedents or private history of her lodger 
might be, Jane Rodgers could not but recognize that she 
lived a quiet life and gave wonderfully little trouble. Then, 
though she paid her rent monthly, she was in reality a yearly 
lodger ; she had already taken Jane's house for more than a 
year, her rent having been all the time regularly paid. It 
would manifestly be a pity to give her up by any over-hasti- 
ness. 

Jane resolved upon a compromise. She took up the tea, 
arranged the bedrooms scrupulously, and then sat down in her 
kitchen to await Mrs. Grey's summons. 

Some time passed before it came, for Margaret would not 
leave her child that evening until she had seen her in the 
quiet, peaceful sleep that ought to come so readily at her age; 
and she noted with ever-increasing indignation that her little 
daughter was feverish and restless, that she started painfully 
now and then, and clung nervously to her hand. 

Nothing calmed her like her mother's voice ; so, after try- 
ing various other methods, Margaret sang to her in a low, 
sweet undertone some of the children's hymns she had taught 
her at different times. 

It was long, long since Margaret had lifted her voice in 
song of any kind, and tears once or twice almost choked her 
utterance as the " Sweet Story of Old " and " Gentle Jesus " 
came falteringly from her pale lips. 

She had sung them at her child's cradle with all the proud 
joy of a young mother happy and beloved. Now all was 
changed — she and her child were alone in the wide world. 
But the sweet old words were suggestive. As she sang the 
spirit of the lonely woman grew calmer and her voice faltered 
less. 

Then — in that fair long ago — she had loved the words for 
their music, their sweet, pleasant harmony ; now she loved 
them for themselves, for the healing rest they seemed to bring 
to her. Like the cool touch of a loving mother on the fevered 
brow of a sick little one were the words of these child-utter- 



A DREAM OF THE SEL 97 

ances to Margaret that evening. She grew calmer and her 
daughter slept. 



CHAPTEK XV. 

A DREAM OF THE SEA. 

We dream what is 
About to happen to us. 

The language in which Margaret condemned Jane Rod- 
gers's conduct to her daughter was not very bitter, but it was 
effective. She would listen to no excuses, no recapitulation 
of the grievous faults of children in general, and of Miss 
Laura (Jane was very respectful when addressing her mother) 
in particular — of the urgent necessity for some kind of dis- 
cipline. All this she set aside with a quiet dignity that 
severely impressed Jane. 

" No one but myself," she said, " shall have power to cor- 
rect my child. If you cannot make up your mind to promise 
never to attempt anything of the kind for the future, I will 
leave your house to-morrow, and you know very well that 
uuder the circumstances I might refuse even a month's 
notice." 

" I only acted for the best/' replied Jane. " Miss Laura 
was that unmanageable ! For the future I won't try to look 
after her." 

" That's all I require, Jane. I need not tell you chat my 
confidence in j'ou is severely shaken : I could never trust you 
with such an important charge again. I cannot even tell 
you whether I shall be able to make up my mind to remain 
in your house. But I shall narrowly watch your behavior, 
and may hope to be convinced that ignorance rather than 
downright badness of heart was the cause of your cruelty to 
my little daughter." 

Jane's mouth was open to reply, but Margaret stopped her: 
" You have said quite enough ; you may leave me now. Only 
remember this : I must never be forced to complain of you in 
this way again." 
T 



98 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Slie turned to her writing-table as she spoke, and Jane with 
heightened color walked to the door. 

She did not attempt to answer, for Margaret's severity of 
manner awed her ; but if Mrs. Grey had looked her way she 
might have seen an ominous frown on her brow and a gleam 
of anger in her cold gray eye. 

Jane prided herself on her spirit. It was next to respect- 
ability in her estimate of necessary virtues, but she seldom 
displayed it imprudently. When the door was between her 
and her mistress she clenched her fist and shook it at the 
senseless boards. " Her and her beggar's brat !" she muttered ; 
" but mayhap I'll teach them yet." And with that she retired 
to the kitchen, leaving Margaret, very spent and sad, undis- 
puted mistress of the field. 

Perhaps it was a dear-bought victory. It might have been 
better for herself and Laura if she had acted upon her first 
determination, and left Jane Rodgers's house on the next day. 
But we cannot know all our kind, its varieties are so infinite, 
and Margaret believed in Jane still to a great extent ; then 
the difficulties of a change of residence were very great. 

Moving was an expensive business, one she could not well 
afford, and so far as that village was concerned (she had a 
certain repugnance to going elsewhere) she did not know of 
another place that would suit them ; so the matter was de- 
cided. Margaret went to bed fully determined to remain 
where she was. Her bedroom window commanded the sea. 
She lifted the blind that night, as her habit was, and looked 
away wistfully over the waters. How she longed sometimes 
for the freedom of the white sea-gull, that skims those restless 
waves and passes on, on, through the light and through the 
darkness till it reaches the haven where it would be ! 

There was a haven for which she longed so passionately 
that at times the longing was a bitter pain : her haven was 
not in the heavenly country. In those days Margaret seldom 
thought of that, for even the passing away from things visible 
might not possibly put an end to her pain. It was a haven 
in which she had once rejoiced, but from which she had passed 
out into the black darkness of a dreary, shoreless ocean. The 
love and confidence of one poor human heart — that was the 
whole of her desire ; and day by day, night by night, the 



UNEXPECTED VISITORS AT ^IIDDLETHORPE. 99 

wished-for haven seemed drifted farther away, till even hope 
died down, and she ceased to think she could ever reach it. 

She had a dream that night : with the strange perversity 
of nightly visions it seemed to mingle in one and confuse 
inextricably the experiences and thoughts of those last few 
days. She saw the sea as she had seen it that eveningj 
streaked with night-born radiance, and on it a small boat — 
in the boat the dark forjn of the man she dreaded ; in hex 
dream she loved him, and was stretching out her arms for a 
place ,by his side in the tiny skiff. Then a gradual change : 
the gleaming silver passed into ruddy gold, which tinged 
ocean and sands and rock, and she knew that it was the hour 
of sunset. She was sitting on the yellow sands gazing out to 
sea, and suddenly as she looked into the flood of color a white 
speck rose from its midst — a sail, which grew larger and 
whiter till she saw that it was no sail, but the vast wings of a 
gigantic bird that was leisurely skimming the water till it 
rested at last at her feet. And its eyes were dark and lus- 
trous, full of love and confidence. Ah, how well she knew 
them! Another change: she thought that she looked up 
again, and the bird was gone, but in its place Laura's father 
stood before her stretching out his arms to her longingly. 
And then she woke Avith a start and a shiver, to see the gray 
dawning begin to struggle with the darkness, and to feel at 
her heart a cold, cold chill. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

UNEXPECTED VISITORS AT MIDDLETHORPE. 

And in pleading for life's fair fulfilment, I plead 
For all that you miss and all that you need. 

After this the days passed on in the little village by the 
Bea somewhat slowly and lingeringly. Spring blushed into 
eummer, the bright early freshness of grass and foliage deep- 
ened into summer's maturity, the gray ocean wore a mild blue 
appearance as it rolled in on the yellow sands, and began to 
reveal its depths to those who skimmed it in the boats — some 



100 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SHOW. 

bound on pleasure and some on business — ^that left the shore 
from time to time. Over the dim, vast distance Summer cast 
her misty veil, shutting in earth and sea with her soft haloa 
and vapors, and to the yellow sands came women and chil- 
dren, vanguard of the great army that later in the season 
would swoop down upon this village and others of the same 
type. 

Margaret was often there with a book in her hand or a 
piece of work, and her child by her side ; but generally she 
was unoccupied, her hands listless, her eyes growing, daily 
deeper and more weary. For the strain on heart and spirit 
was rapidly becoming more than her physical strength could 
bear. She was fading visibly, but there was no loving eye 
near to note how her step grew more languid and her white 
fingers thinner, and her beautiful face more worn and sad till 
its very beauty seemed to be passing away. One noted the 
change, however, and took full advantage of it. 

Jane Rodgers was becoming a kind of household tyrant ; 
not that she ever again attempted the management of Laura 
— that would have aroused what little spirit Margaret still 
possessed; her tyranny was exhibited in other ways. She 
would do precisely what she chose, leaving everything else 
undone — would spend days visiting her friends under the plea 
of change being an absolute necessity, and leave Mrs. Grey, 
who could not afford extra help, to manage matters for her- 
self in the house ; she would even reply insolently at times to 
some simple request made by her lodger, for she saw her 
power. A kind of indifference to life and its comforts was 
creeping gradually over Margaret, a numbing sense of weak- 
ness, a languid desire for rest — only rest. In such a frame 
ahe could scarcely have roused herself to undertake the exer- 
tion of moving. She felt that between herself and her land- 
lady matters were not so pleasant as they had formerly been, 
but Laura was happy, and for herself she cared very little. 
The one great sorrow, like an open wound whose throbbing 
engrosses every sense, made her comparatively indifferent to 
the little pin-pricks of her daily life. 

She had one joy in these dark days. It was in the cling- 
ing affection of her daughter. Since the day of her return 
Laura and her mother had been far more to one another than 



UNEXPECTED VISITORS AT MIDDLETHORPE. 101 

ever before. The child opened her heart to her mother, told 
of all her little dreams and fancies, and Margaret began to 
talk to the little one even about the long sealed-up subject ; 
not indeed her trouble and its origin — that would have been 
impossible as yet — but about the vague hope toward which in 
her darkness her thoughts ever turned. She spoke to Laura 
about her father, drew from her the story of her recollections, 
and tried to awaken and nourish in her young heart a rever- 
ent love for the parent she might perhaps never see. 

For sometimes when Margaret felt her strength failing, a 
sudden fear for Laura's future would take possession of her. 
If — if — God should take her too from the little one ! But 
that was a possibility at which she dared not glance. To 
live as she was living, lonely, unloved, was bad enough, but 
through all its darkness was a gleam of something bright, 
the hope of a vague, dim to-come, that might possibly bring 
back her joy. To die was to shut even this out, and for 
ever ; to pass away unforgiven, misunderstood, a stain on her 
fair fame. 

Would not that be past endurance ? 

Margaret could not face the idea of death, but with the 
bitter consciousness that it might come she did her duty to 
her child, and, though painful at first, it became sweet after 
a time. She trained her to think of the father who seemed 
to have cast her off — to love his memory, to look forward to 
his return : then, in any case, if indeed he too were in the 
land of the living, Laura would have a refuge. She would 
not pass from her mother's care and tenderness to the pro- 
tection of one of whom she knew nothing; her father would 
he her father, the longed, the looked-for, and perhaps in after 
days (it was seldom Margaret had strength to carry her 
thoughts so far), when she would have long been ccld, he 
might hear from the lips of his daughter the tale of her ever- 
faithful love. 

It was one of those warm, languid June days. The very 
sea seemed lazy as ripple after ripple crept in sighing to the 
shore. There was a blue, hazy vapor on even the near 
horizon, and scarcely a breath of air was stirring. 

Margaret and Laura had found an approach to shelter 
from the fierce m'dday sun far up on one of the sand-clif6, 



102 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

under a stunted shrub. They were sitting there together 
the little Laura rather stiller than usual. 

She had been running about on the sands with some small 
friends picked up among the visitors, and the heat had tired 
her. She sat at her mother's feet, with her head buried in 
her lap to hide it from the sun. 

"Mamma," she cried from her safe retreat, "I Lad such 
fun just now." 

Margaret's thoughts were far away. Sho recalled them 
to interest herself in her child's amusements : " Had you, 
darling? Who were you playing with? — those little chil- 
dren in blue frocks ?" 

"One of them's bigger than me, mamma," said Laura 
reprovingly. " You saw me then, but you didn't see the tall 
gentleman with a big dog, for we we/e far away along the 
sands. He made his dog go in the water for his stick, oh, 
ever so many times! and then — J^Iamma, are you listen- 
ing?" 

"Yes, dear; what then?" 

"He took me up on his shoulder and carried me a long 
way." 

Margaret smiled languidly : " He must have taken a fancy 
to my little girl." 

" But wasn't it funny ?" said Laura meditatively ; then 
starting up suddenly in her eagerness: "Mamma, do you 
know what I thought when he was so kind ?" 

" No, darling, how can I ?" 

"I thought" — Laura's eyes were sparkling with excite- 
ment — " that perhaps it was papa come back." 

Her eager voice roused Margaret from her languor. She 
rose from her improvised couch among the branches, and 
resting one hand on the child's shoulder said as quietly as 
she could, "What brought such an idea into your little 
headr 

"Why, mamma, don't you see? I always think papa 
will come like that ; he'll want to surprise us and see if we 
remember him. This gentleman asked me about my papa, 
and if he lived here. And when I said no, but he was 
coming back, he looked at me so funnily ; then, before he let 



UNEXPECTED VISITORS AT MIDDLETHOBPE. 103 

ine go, he kissed me — a big kiss, mamma, like my papa used 
to give me long ago, wheu he lived here." 

Margaret's heart had been swelling as the little voice 
flowed on. She could never have told why the childish fancy 
took such a hold upon her mind, but so it was ; with Laura, 
she could not help feeling that the gentleman took more 
than a common interest in her. Was it true, then ? Had 
he come back to them ? Was her trouble to end ? for she 
did not fear her Maurice ; one short half hour, face to face, 
would be sufficient for them both — sufficient to break the; 
icy barrier that lay between them, and to make them one 
again. 

" Laura," she said, still with that forced quiet in her voice, 
" try and tell me what the gentleman was like." 

This was a difficult task for the little one. She looked up 
to the sky for inspiration. "He was tall, mamma," she said 
at last, " and I think — I think there was something funny 
about his eyes ; but he looked kind, and I haven't seen any- 
liody like him before. Of course I don't remember what 
j*apa was like. He had a great big dog — so big" (she ex- 
tended both her arms by way of illustration) — "with a 
curly black coat and brown eyes, and a tail that wagged so 
funnily." 

The dog was evidently easier to describe than the gentle- 
man. . Perhaps Laura was not singular in finding it rather 
difficult to string together his merits and demerits, even phys- 
ically considered. He had been a puzzle to more than one in 
his transit through the world. 

Margaret smiled at her child's enthusiasm. She was not 
much clearer about the identity of the stranger than she had 
been before, but a longing came over her to unravel the little 
mystery. She was ready to ridicule her own folly for seeing 
any mystery in the matter. Probably the gentleman was only 
some stray visitor at Middlethorpe's small hotel who had been 
pleased with Laura's fair, childish beauty ; and yet the feeling 
was there. She must find him out and satisfy herself that ho 
was a stranger. 

" Run home, darling," she said to her little girl, " and tell 
Jane to give you your dinner ; afterward sit quietly in the 



104 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

parlor ^^^th your new story-book ; before tea-time I shall b« 
at home." 

Laura hesitated: "You won't go to London, mamma?" 

" Certainly not, my little daughter ; now run away like a 
good child." 

There was no disputing this. Laura returned to the little 
cottage, and Margaret remained alone on the cliif. She was 
anxious to find out her daughter's friend, and thus put out of 
her mind at once the haunting thoughts that Laura's simple 
fancy had implanted there. 

It could not be a difiicult task ; there were few gentlemen 
with big dogs at Middlethorpe, for the lords of creation had 
not begun to indulge in the luxury of seaside idleness. They 
had sent some of their womenkind before ; themselves were 
still busy on the world's highways. The gentleman who had 
taken so kindly an interest in her little daughter would cer- 
tainly be identified with ease. 

With" a view to his discovery Margaret looked below. The 
Bands, so busy a few minutes before, were dull and silent, for 
the flocks of little ones, with their nurses and mammas, had 
gone in for the early dinner, a necessary part of seaside life, 
and Middlethorpe might have been perfectly empty. 

It was the stillness of a summer noontide, strangely op- 
pressive to a restless heart. This way and that Margaret 
looked, up and down the sands, across the sea ; no gentleman 
or big dog was in sight, and with a little sigh she turned to 
look for the book that had been lying by her side, to while 
away in its company the hour of forced inaction. 

She turned, and became suddenly conscious of the startling 
fact that she was not alone — that while she had been looking 
down at the sands and across over the sea she had been joined 
by an unlooked-for companion, and he must have been there 
some minutes, for he had found time to settle himself satisfac- 
torily. He looked perfectly at his ease, very near her in a 
reclining posture, his elbows on the sands and his head in his 
hand ; he was not looking at her. He seemed to be watching 
the feathery clouds that were passing over the blue depths 
above or counting the insects that flitted past unceasingly; 
but she, when she caught sight of him, was not so calm. Her 
face blarched suddenly ; she covered it with her hands, and 



UNEXPECTED VISITORS AT MIDDLETHORPE. 105 

a low cry — it might be of anger, it might be of dismay — 
came from her quivering lips. 

At the sound he turned his gaze in her direction, showing 
as he did so a broad square brow, deep-set eyes and a dark, 
strongly-lined face, its plainness only relieved by the n.outh, 
which was full yet delicately formed, the lips soft and ripe aa 
those of any woman. It was partially veiled by a dark mous- 
tache, contrasting rather strangely with his head, which was 
covered by a crop of short gray hair. He did not look an 
Englishman ; indeed, there was something strange in his ap- 
pearance which would have rendered the classification of his 
type a difficult matter to the most skilful physiognomist. 
Only one point seemed to be tolerably evident : he belonged 
to the ardent South rather than the cold North, for even at 
the moment of her discovery, when he was striving, with all 
the strength of a strong nature, to show nothing but cool in- 
difference, his breath was coming quick and hot, his eyes 
were sparkling, his fine mouth was quivering with excite- 
ment, and in his voice there was an unmistakable quiver as 
he spoke after a few moments' silence, spent by her in avert- 
ing her face from his gaze, by him in watching curiously her 
every movement : " Marguerite !" 

A deep musical voice and a slightly foreign accent. It 
seemed to excite her. She trembled from head to foot, and 
tried to rise from her seat. He put out his hand to detain 
her. " Not yet," he said sternly. " I must know first whal 
all this means." 

She looked up wonderingly. 

" Ah ! you know well," he continued more rapidly, and his 
voice takiug a firmer timbre. " Why have you hid yourself? 
Why have you fled to the outskirts of creation to avoid me ? 
Why are you shocked, terrified, when in my tenderest voice I 
speak the dear name you used to love to hear from my lips ? 
Have I grown so very monstrous, or do you wish to kill your- 
self with this savage loneliness that your English nation so 
dearly loves ? Speak ! speak ! — or rather speak not at all. 
Let me sit here for ever and feast my eyes on the loveliness 
a woman's whim has hid from me so long. Marguerite ! 
Marguerite! my white pearl, it will be difficult for you tc 
hide fror" me again." 



106 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

She httd risen to her feet, the angry color coming and go 
ing on her fair face, but, crouching before her, he held her 
by the dress and refused to let her stir. 

" Marguerite," he cried, bitter pain in his voice, "I know 1 
speak folly ; you are not one of my warm race ; you are a cold 
daughter of proud England. But see, love, I will be patient. 
Sit down again. I am not near you now; only." and his 
brow contracted into a frown so fierce that it might mean a 
menace, " I am here now, and I must and will be heard." 

Margaret reseated herself, ]?ut her face grew pale with sup- 
pressed anger. " If it is the manner of your race to insult 
the unprotected," she said bitterly, " I must congratulate my- 
self on the fact that I do not belong to it." 

His face kindled. "Spoken like yourself, ma reine," he 
said softly. "I kiss your hands. I am, what I have ever 
been, your devoted servitor." 

" If so, Mr. L'Estrange," she said, slowly and distinctly, 
but as if speaking with some difficulty, " I must beg you to 
leave me at once." 

He smiled — a smile that irradiated his face like sunshine : 
"I was rash, ma belle; sometimes obedience is an impossibility. 
But see ! what are you afraid of? Look at me, devoted to 
you body and soul, your friend, ready to do you the smallest 
service ; only asking this in return, that I may be permitted to 
stay where I can see you, can offer you kindly greeting from 
time to time — a common acquaintance, nothing more." 

She would not look at him. Her eyes were fixed on a dis- 
tant speck on the horizon — the sail of a ship or the long line 
of smoke from a passing steamer. 

" You have forced yourself upon me," she said in a low, 
constrained voice ; " you know your presence is distasteful, and 
you know why. But for you these years of what you are 
pleased to call savage loneliness would never have been." 

He did not seem to hear her ; he was carrying on a kind 
of soliloquy. " She is changed," he said, gazing at her still, 
" yes, and fading. The rich bloom in her cheek, the l3,ugh- 
ing sparkle in her eye, the fair roundness of form, it is passing 
— ^passing ; but, helas ! m^n Dieu ! is she not fairer than ever 
in her pure, sad whiteness ? Ah, Marguerite, my pearl ! how 
could he cer have doubted you ?" 



UNEXPECTED VISITORS AT MIDDLETHORPE. 107 

Almost fiercely she answered, the fire of indignation giving 
Dack to her eyes the sparkle of the olden days : "And you can 
ask that — you from whom all the misery came ? He knew what 
had passed between you and me before our marriage. He 
trusted me, my life was blest ; you came between us and de* 
etroyed my happiness." 

" Gently, gently, my fair Marguerite," he said, pleadingly ; 
" you English are a justice-loving people. Is it not your law 
that allows what they call extenuating circumstances ? That 
meeting between you and me need never have taken place. 
If you remember, I warned you. I received no answer. 
Silence gives consent. Was I less or more than human not to 
avail myself of it ?" 

It was true — too true. Margaret hid her face in her 
hands, and when she next spoke her voice was low and 
pleading: "Mr. L'Estrange, you are cruel. Yes — God for- 
give me ! — I was to blame, and He has punished me sorely ; 
but have pity on me — leave me here." 

A smile played over his lips, but she could not see it ; he 
drew nearer to her and touched the folds of her dress with a 
hand that was burning. 

" It is time it should end," he said, trying to gaze into her 
hidden face, " It was all a mistake, a grand mistake. I 
should never have allowed it, only I wanted faith. I dared 
not drag you into any uncertain future. Ah, my white pearl ! 
who understands you so well as I ? Do you remember — shall 
I, can I, ever forget? — those few blessed days ? We were happy, 
Margaret — happy as children to whom the present is all ; the 
future was not even named between us, for when a cloud, born 
of the North, your childhood's home, passed over your gentle 
mind, I was able to dispel it. Those moonlight excursions on 
the silver water of fair Venice — your friends were with us, 
yet we were alone, for the kindly darkness made us almost for- 
get their presence ; the serenades — ah ! I see your memory is 
no worse than mine ; the soft harmonies dying away in the 
far distance as we sat together in our gondola, our hands 
clasped, our souls rapt to ecstasy ; the lessons in astronomy on 
those clear spring evenings when you and notre chlre fillette 
scanned in turns the deep, star-spangled sky ; that day spent 
in exploring, Margaret — your pretty coquetry had voxed me, 



108 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

but the soft golden radiance of pictured ^^lass, the sculptured 
marbles in that beautifiil church, the Scalzi, soothed my soul 
and I was at rest, your softly gleaming eyes telling of your 
sympathy in my joy ; the pictures, Margaret — our delight when 
we were able to trace the hand of the greatest masters, and 
pronounce, without guide or cicerone, on the authorship of 
one of our favorites, — yes, these were pleasures. I sometimes 
think that they were pleasures too pure, too high, for any but 
the gods, and in their jealousy they dashed the cup of blijjs 
from our lips. But," his voice deepened ; he drew so near 
to her that his hot, passionate breath fanned her cheek, "they 
have given us one more chance. Shall we be wise and 
seize it ? Ah, ma belle ! I see it passing. Happiness ! think 
what that is; it is not often offered to the dull sons and 
daughters of humanity, and, Margaret, we have once re- 
jected it." 

He spoke, and gradually the bitterness seemed to pass from 
Margaret's face. There came into her eyes a lustrous shining 
to replace the fierce light with which she had greeted his first 
words ; she even leant over toward him and allowed him to 
touch her pale face with his strong, nervous hand. For all 
was on his side for the moment. The strange, wellnigh over- 
powering fascination he possessed — memory, imagination, 
present loneliness and a certain bitter rising of indignation 
which the readiness of her husband's mistrust and desertion 
could not but cause her at times. 

He saw his advantage. " It is not all forgotten, then, ma 
hien-aim^e ?" he whispered tenderly. " That past beautiful 
time is still there — there in the shrine of your pure heart. 
Tell me once for all, shall it return ? He has forsaken you, 
insulted you by his mistrust ; you owe him no duty ; and 
what is it that I ask of you ? The restoration of your friend- 
ship — nothing more." 

The voice was soft, thrilling, full of an unspeakable pathos, 
and at first as she heard her brain felt dizzy and a delicious 
languor seemed to steal over her senses. It would be so sweet 
to yield, to renew in her dull prime some of the fair joys of 
youth. Could she not accept his friendship, for that, after 
all, is an every-day matter ? He knew her too well to pro 
Bume. 



UNEXPECTED VISITORS AT MIDDLJSTHOBPE. 109 

And while she pondered, with a weakness utterly new to 
this fair, proud woman, he stood before her, looking down 
upon her fixedly. Her eyes fell before his. What met 
them? Nothing more novel than the Indian scarf she 
usually wore. It had dropped from her shoulders and was 
hanging on her arm. 

A trifle at such a time, but do not life and its issues hang 
sometimes on a thread ? The scarf recalled Margaret to her- 
self, for it brought another past to her mind. It had been 
her husband's gift to her — presented on the occasion of the 
little Laura's birth — and as she glanced on it there came to 
her mind a host of gentle memories. His words, his looks, 
his pride in her, the glad confidence of his strong, young 
manhood, — she felt them once more around her like the pale 
ghosts of a happy time gone by for ever ; but they had been 
real once, warm, living flesh and blood ; and with their holy 
power they warded off" the tempter's influence. 

Her first feeling was of burning shame and penitence. 
Was she then so absolutely weak ? Should it be possible for 
misery and loneliness even to degrade her, to take from her 
that in which, through all her misery, she had rejoiced — the 
proud consciousness of unshaken rectitude? For even to 
listen to this man's blandishments was infinite degradation, 
the dragging down of her white soul to the base level of his. 

Thoughts like these rushed tumultuously into her mind as 
she looked down still upon her husband's gift ; and suddenly 
she drew herself back shivering, as one might do who had 
been standing unconsciously close to the edge of a great abyss. 

He did not understand her gesture. The soft look was still 
in his eyes, and he made a movement to take her in his arms. 
But the new strength of her soul, born of the agonizing peni- 
tence for that one weak thought, seemed to have given to her 
the power she needed. She thrust out both her hands before 
her, pushing him back so rudely that he stumbled some steps 
down the sand-clifi*; but he soon recovered his footing. With 
a look in which pleading and indignation were mingled he 
tried to approach her ; she kept him ofl* still. 

" Leave me 1 leave me !" she cried " What have I said, 
what have I done, that you should look at me like this ?" 
And then she covered her face with both hands. " My God I 



110 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

my God !" she moaned, piteously ; " has even good forsaken 
me?" 

Middlethorpe dinner-hour was over. The sun had passed 
its meridian height, the shadows of shrub and cliff were be- 
ginning to lengthen, and with the drawing on of evening 
came a moaning, sighing wind that ruffled the pale waters at 
their feet. It seemed an echo of Margaret's wail. 

Her persecutor had turned from her ; apparently he could 
control himself no longer. Taking a stone, he threw it far 
out into the sea : it was the angry gesture of a child whose 
will has been crossed. He walked a few steps along the path 
that skirted the cliff, but it seemed as if he could not go 
finally. He went back to where he had left her sitting mute 
and helpless. 

" I thought you had gone," she said, flashing up at him a 
glance that was not pleasant to meet. 

He looked down upon her mth apparent calmness, though 
all his pulses were quivering with rage and disappointment : 
" I have not much more to say, ma belle, for I fear you are in 
earnest this time. What a fool I was to imagine for one 
moment that you possessed a heart! Go your own way, 
then ; starve yourself of all happiness, die, for the sake of 
your husband, the man who has cast you off. But — you re- 
member the old days ; I was always something of a prophet 
and my predictions came to pass — I tell you this : a trouble — 
one/ could have averted — is hanging over you still. You 
shake your head, you have suffered to the extent of suffering. 
Bah ! in all hearts there is one assailable point. You are 
not superhuman, ma reine. It is possible that your husband, 
the man who loved you once, may be nearer than you dream, 
and thinking other thoughts than yours." 

What could he mean ? Margaret looked up wildly, for he 
was turning from her to the winding path that led down the 
sand-cliff to the sea. " Stay, stay !" she cried. 

He looked round at her. " Madam," he said politely, with 
the bow of a courtier, " it is my turn to be obdurate. I would 
fain obey you — I cannot : your refusal of all friendly offices 
has sealed my lips, and time presses. Farewell ! The hum- 
blest of all your devotees kisses your hands and wishes ycu 
joy." 



PART II. 

A MAN AT WAR WITH HIMSELF. 



CHAPTER I. 
MAURICE OBEY. 

But the living and the lost — 

For them our souls must weep ; 
For them we suffer a yearning pain 

That will not let us sleep. 

A CHANGE. From the shores of the gray British seas to 
those of the grayer Baltic — from the yellow sands and purple 
moors of Yorkshire to the wellnigh boundless forests and 
plains of Western Russia — thousands of miles of wood, lake 
and river, only diversified by some few castles and villages. 

It was July, hot and radiant, but in the depths of those 
woods coolness is always attainable. By one of the broad 
silver lakes, under a group of birches that rose gracefully 
from its shores, a young man was resting through the noon- 
tide. 

He appeared to be a hunter, for his horse was tethered to 
one of the trees and a brace of fine hounds were baying out 
their impatience at his side. But for these dumb companions 
he seemed to be alone, and yet all the accessories spoke of 
comfort. A kind of table had been extemporized at his feet, 
and on it a large meat-pasty, some bread and salt, a knife 
and fork and a flask of sherry were lying. He had not done 
much justice to the provisions ; he was leaning back against 
the tree and looking out over the lake, a kind of disgust in 
his fine face. Suddenly, bethinking himself, he raised two 
fingers to his lips and gave a prolonged whistle. 

Ill 



112 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

It brought from the surrounding woods two stately-looking 
Russians, long-bearded and sedate. Their master pointed to 
the provisions before him — a gesture which was evidently 
understood without dijfficulty, for they carried away the food, 
retired respectfully to some distance, and soon made a great 
inroad into both pasty and bread, packing up what was left 
in a small haversack which one of them carried on his back. 
The other then approached his master and made a low bow, 

" Time to mount ?" said the young man, evidently English 
from his appearance and accent. " Ha ! so much the better." 

The horse was untethered, wiped down admiringly, and 
held in readiness by the bearded Russian, his companion in 
the mean time bringing out two stout little ponies from the 
trees. And in a few moments the small cavalcade was 
ranging the woods. 

The black eagle was flapping its great wings above them, 
feathered fowl of a thousand varieties were twittering on the 
branches of the trees. Many of the coverts might harbor the 
wolf or lynx; in the reach of meadow to which a forest- 
glade might lead the gigantic elk would probably be resting 
with her young. 

It was a position to exhilarate the coldest brain, and the 
Englishman, who took the lead into the forest, did not look 
particularly torpid. 

He was monarch, too, of all he surveyed, for one of the 
hospitable nobles of Courland had given his guest a free per- 
mission to shoot not only through his estates, which were suf- 
ficiently vast, but through those of his neighbors ; indeed, the 
whole province was free to Maurice Grey. With gun and 
dogs he might traverse the wilds of Courland in all their 
length and breadth. 

To an Englishman, a lover of sport for its own sake, could 
any position be more delightful? He seemed to feel this. 
Mounted on his horse, a fine little mare of Arab extraction, 
his keen sportsman's eye scanning the depths of wood, his ear 
intent on the faintest sound, he looked another man from the 
jaded, weary traveller resting listlessly on the shores of the 
silver lake. 

But the dogs looked uneasy ; there was a rustling in the 
underwood; the dry fallen leaves crackled ominously. He 



MAURICE OBEY. 113 

wOckeJ Ms gun. Hist ! a long, gray-looking animal, gliding 
ghost-Hike out of the bush, but not within range. It was a 
fierce she-wolf — the terror of the neighborhood ; this the Eng- 
lishman discovered, and then the chase began. The wily doga 
urged her out into the open ; bewildered she fled before them 
— long, swift, seemingly untiring. With bellies to the ground, 
and legs that seemed barely to skim it, followed the noble 
hounds, and after them their master, urging them on by his 
voice, till dogs, wolf and horseman seemed to fly over the 
plain. 

On, on, leaving the Russian servants and ponies in the far 
distance, the forest behind, the blue distance before them, till 
at last the wolf grew weary, her pace perceptibly flagged: 
she tried to stand at bay, but exhaustion overcame her ; the 
hounds were on her haunches ; they pinned her to the ground 
till the voice of their master called them oif, and a shot put 
an end for ever to the robber of Russian hen-roosts and the 
terror of Russian babies. 

Various other feats were performed that day, each exciting 
in its kind ; and when the young Englishman, who had rid- 
den far into the short, bright night of that season, rested at 
last in a kind of log-built hunting-lodge, where the hospitable 
owner of the estate had always a few necessaries in readiness 
for the guests of the hunt, he was quite ready for refreshment 
and repose. He partook of the provisions put before him by 
his servants, bathed in the river that flowed at no great dis- 
tance, and laid himself down to rest, rejoicing in the glorious 
solitude, in the freedom from anxiety, in the triumph of hav- 
ing found one pursuit that could put to flight, even for a 
time, haunting care and cruel retrospect. 

But the triumph was short. The few hours of night passed, 
and kindly sleep would hold his restless spirit no longer. 
With the gray dawning Maurice lifted his head from his 
couch and looked around him. The Russian servants, 
wrapped in sheepskins, were lying on mats at his feet, fast 
asleep ; even the hounds were silent and motionless, wearied 
with their day of hard work. The neighborhood of the 
sleepers was oppressive. He rose and wandered out into the 
little clearing in the midst of which the hut was built. 

Yes, this was solitude, true solitude, without excitement of 



114 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

any kind to fill it ; and as Maurice looked listlessly ai the sun 
rising over the woods he tried to persuade himself that it was 
delightful. Far from the babble of false men and falser 
women, not even the rising of a thin wreath of smoke in the 
far distance telling of their existence, — this was what he had 
been seeking, and hitherto seeking in vain. He seated him- 
self on the trunk of a fallen tree to look this great loneliness 
in the face and realize the comfort of his position, but it 
would not do. 

Insensibly, as he thought and gazed, came visions of the 
past, dreams of the future, like weird, shapeless demons whom 
memory had robed in horrors to rob him of his peace and fill 
his solitude with care. For Maurice Grey had loved as some 
men can and do love, throwing all the strength of their 
nature into this one thing. And he had lost, not by the hand 
of death — so pitiless when put forth to take the loved — but 
by a something more dread, more pitiless still — the discoveiy 
of his lady's falsehood. Oh, he had honored her, trusted her, 
given her his all ; and what had he found ? That through 
the long years they had passed together in such perfect har- 
mony her heart had been not his, but another's. He had 
given all ; she had given nothing — worse than nothing. And 
in the bitter revulsion of feeling consequent on the discovery 
he had not waited for explanations ; he had left her, vowing, 
in a vow that came from the very depths of his stricken heart, 
not to look upon her fair, false face again. 

Since then he had been striving after forgetfulness. He 
would not hear of her, he would not ask about her. In the 
various business letters that necessarily passed between him 
and his solicitor in England — for he was a man of some pro- 
perty — her name was never mentioned. He had left amply 
sufficient for her maintenance. The property she had brought 
was paid over to her without the slightest reference to him. 
Thus, he considered, bare duty was fulfilled, and for anything 
further — bah ! woman-like, would she not rejoice in the ab- 
sence of restraint ? It was possible that he might desire to 
have a voice in the education of his child ; about his wife he 
would trouble himself no further. 

But the mind is volatile and independent ; it receives not 
the "Thou shalt not" with which poor mortals would fetter 



MAURICE GREY. 115 

it. Over flood and field, through cities and solitudes, Maurice 
had been wandering with this one idea — to banish for ever 
from his mind the beautiful, haunting face of his lost Marga- 
ret — and all was in vain. More persistently than ever it 
returned on this morning in the wilds, looking at him with 
her lustrous eyes, speaking to him with her sweet, low voice, 
maddening him with the cruel recollections it brought of loss 
and shame. 

For in a case of this kind the man is, perhaps, a greater 
sufferer than the woman. True, he can wander hither and 
thither, throwing himself into the stirring life of the world — 
business, pleasure, excitement ; but in the deep, strong nature 
the sting remains, bitter, poignant, ever present ; not the soft 
sadness of the weaker sex, which in many cases, stooping 
down under the stroke, reaps the reward of submission in a 
certain gradual dulling of the pain ; but the fierce, angry 
plunging of a soul that will not yield to dire necessity — that 
will not look its sorrow in the face and bear it. 

And no trial is fitter to raise this ceaseless tempest in the 
spirit than that under which Maurice was smarting. He 
had trusted in her as he trusted in his God ; she had been to 
him the embodiment of all that is good, pure, beautiful in 
womankind, and the discovery of her treachery was like the 
breaking away of solid ground from beneath his feet. 

From that moment he believed in nothing. Writhing 
under the bitter pain of the wound inflicted on him, he 
would yet show no signs of weakness. He would forget ; 
he would cut the ties that bound him to the past ; he would 
tear her from his heart. In the struggle his nature seemed 
to change. He whom Margaret had loved for his gentle 
thoughtfulness, his manly courage, his geniality, his bright, 
joyous spirit, became another man. Irritable, morose, cyn- 
ical, gayest among the gay at the festive season, though of 
his laughter it might have been said that it was mad, of his 
mirth that it was " the crackling of thorns under a pot ;" at 
other times dull and listless, uneasy, changeable, passionate. 
These were some of his characteristics after many mouths* 
wandering. And he felt the change ; sometimes he profess- 
ed to rejoice in it. He told himself that he was getting hard- 
ened -that soon, soon, the past would be as though it had 



116 CHASTE AS IGEi PURE AS SJSOW. 

not been ; but there was a secret consciousness within which 
told him that this could not be. 

Such was the feeling which spoke to him on that still July 
morning through the solitude till he could bear his own 
society no longer. He returned to the hut, awoke his ser- 
vants with some roughness, and intimated to them, in th« 
best Russian he could command, that he was tired of wan- 
dering ; he would return to their lord's castle that day, and 
then join him and his family in St. Petersburg. 

The Russians bowed simultaneously. They were accus 
tomed to the caprices of their lord, and did not show the 
least surprise at this sudden termination, after two or three 
days, of an excursion that was to have lasted at least a 
fortnight. 

They escorted their lord's guest to the castle, and on the 
same evening Maurice Grey left it for a St. Petersburg man- 
sion. 



CHAPTER n. 

SOCIETY VERSUS SOLITUDE. 

Come, let us to the hills, where none but God 

Can overlook us ; for I hate to breathe 

The breaths and think the thoughts of other men. 

A FEW days later and the wilds of Courland were given 
up, as far as Maurice Grey was concerned, to the animals 
that ranged them ; he was in St. Petersburg, installed as a 

welcome guest in the grand city mansion of Count , one 

of the Courland nobles, his son, who had mixed itt the best 
society of both Loudon and Paris, having been for some 
time one of Maurice Grey's warmest friends. 

Into the gay life of his brilliant city the young man wel- 
comed his English friend with the utmost cordiality, and 
Maurice was soon immersed in a round of gayeties. It was 
a good time to see St. Petersburg, for all the misery of the 
spring melting of ice and snow was over. The stately Neva, 
clear as crystal and covered with craft of every description, 
was flowing in full magnificence after its winter sleep through 



SOCIETY VERSUS SOLITUDE. 117 

the streets and piazzas of the city. The highways were ful I 
of vehicles, from the grand carriage-and-four of the general 
or prince to the plain hired droshki that seemed ubiquitous. 
Pleasure was the order of the day in the city, for all, high 
and low, rich and poor, were revelling in the charms of the 
short-lived summer-time. 

Maurice threw himself into this new life with the utmost 
eagerness. French is the language of the crtme de la creme 
in St. Petersburg, and as he was master of the seductive mis- 
tress of conversation, his ignorance of Russian by no means 
interfered with any of his amusements. And he entered 
into them thoroughly. Lounging about on the Prospekt or 
Grand English Quay in the morning with a few young Rus- 
sians ; flirting with pretty French coquettes, or rarer Russian 
beauties, in the ladies' afternoon receptions ; floating at 
night in the grand barge of one of the princes on the wide 
Neva, in company of the fair and gay and to the sounds of 
delicious music ; dancing far into the morning and supping 
with the dawn ; — this was the life of St. Petersburg, and for 
some days he enjoyed it thoroughly. One thing was certain: 
it allowed very little time for thought. But he had not the 
constitution or power of endurance of some of his Russian 
friends. A week or two of this hard life knocked him up. 
He was compelled to rest, whether he would or no. And 
then reaction came. The crowd and bustle were once more 
hateful to him. Biliousness, that great foe of the fashion- 
able, cast its jaundiced veil over his eyes. He began to 
loathe the luxurious saloons and crowded rooms and made- 
up beauties — to long again for his own society, for the scenes 
of Nature, for the solitude from which he had only just 
escaped. 

" Be thine own heart thy palace, or the world's a jail," 

said the great Shakespeare. The world was a jail to Maurice 
Grey because of the bitterness his heart contained ; and, un- 
happily, go where we will, we cannot escape the world, or 
that throbbing, torturing consciousness of good and evil, of 
pain and delight, that mortals call the heart. He could not 
hide his cynicism ; like the thorn that the rose-leaves conceal, 
it peeped out. when it was least expected, and the fair ladies 



118 CHASTE AS lOE, PURE AS SNOW. 

with whose society he pleased himself began gayly to question 
him on the mysterious cause of his gloomy ideas. 

This alarmed Maurice. His wound was of such a kind aa 
to be sensitive to the lightest touch. He could not bear that 
what he looked upon as his dishonor should be the common 
talk of his associates. It was this that had made him leave 
England and break all connection with those who had knowii 
him there. When, therefore, it became the custom of his 
fair St. Petersburg friends to question him curiously about 
his past, to suggest a probable history in his dark, melancholy 
eyes, to speak to him with sentimental pathos about life and 
love, he took fright ; and to the grief of his many friends — 
for the Englishman had become the fashion in St. Petersburg 
— announced his intention of departure. Loud and long was 
the opposition, and Maurice grew weary of the delay and sick 
of the great city before his friends would allow him to go ; 
but at last they were left behind him. With no companion, 
not even a servant this time, he was travelling through the 
length and breadth of Russia, by her scattered cities and vast 
plains, to Moscow, the ancient capital; there only a few 
hours, and then on once more, for Russia had become dis- 
tasteful to him. 

He would scarcely pause, for he was in a fever to be on, on 
and away, far from the vexations of " towered cities " and 
their " busy hum " — far, if it were possible, even from men. 
There was a little village that he had known in happier days. 
It was far up in the Swiss mountains ; it was lonely, save for 
the coming and going of tourists, and even these did not 
honor it with their presence for long. Two glaciers stooped 
down into its valley, and it was watched evermore by pillars 
of purest snow. There, perhaps, in the savage grandeur of 
holy Nature, he might find the rest for which he craved, and 
with a feverish anxiety he pressed on to his goal. 

Switzerland at last ! — a mountain-pass, snow-crowned hills, 
laud-locked lakes and white foaming torrents. A certain 
satisfaction glowed in the breast of the world-weary man as 
he looked out upon it all. 

He and his sorrow seemed dwarfed, for the moment, by the 
grand magnificence of the world as God made it — not the 
world of cities, but the world of Nature. His hand was 



SOCIETY VEBSUS SOLITUDE. 119 

visible in the grouping of the Alpine giants, in the variegated 
beauty of their hidden vales, and beneath that hand the trav- 
eller felt himself 

Of carriages and mules he would have none. With his 
Btaff in his hand he crossed the mountains, courting the 
healthy physical weariness, sure precursor of that which 
denies itself to the brain overwrought by excitement — blessed 
sleep. And with the exertion and consequent rest his health 
returned, his muscles played freely, Life carried on her great 
functions with ease. By the time he had reached Grindel- 
wald, the little village in which he intended to stay for some 
time, even some of his cynicism had melted. Doubtless it 
was only for the time. Nature can do much, but she cannot 
really draw the sting of bitter aching from the heart, or give 
back to the spirit the brightness and elasticity of that fresh 
time when men are divine and women are earth-angels, and 
the world is a region of enchantment, a "palace of delights;" 
even the eternal snows and the grand sights and sounds of 
the mountain-country may pall upon the eyes and sicken the 
disappointed heart. For in human nature are the elements 
Df the divine — its infinite cravings only the Infinite can fill. 
Beautiful as God's world may be, it is powerless to fill the 
heart or satisfy the soul of man. Hither and thither he 
may wander; like the dying poet Shelley's marvellous creation, 

" Nature's most secret steps 
He, like her shadow, may pursue ;" 

and yet for the haunting vision, the great unfound loveliness, 
the uufelt joy, his spirit may sicken unceasingly. 



PART III. 

A DOUBLE MYSTERY. 



CHAPTER I. 

PABTIAL DISCOVERIES. 

She seemed to be all nature, 
And all varieties of things in one ; 
Would set at night in clouds of tears, and rise 
ijl light and laughter in the morning ; fear 
No petty customs nor appearances. 
But think what others only dreamed about, v 

And say what others did but think, and do 
What others would but say, and glory in 
What others dared but do. 

" I HAVE no sympathy for you. Addle — not the slightest.'* 

So spoke Mrs. Churchill, standing by a sofa in her boudoii 
with a glass of port in the one hand and a bottle of quinine 
in the other, giving careful attention to the dripping of h 
certain number of drops from the bottle to the glass. 

Her young daughter was on the sofa, looking rather languirt 
and worn. She raised her head, supporting it on her elbow, 
and her voice was a little peevish as she answered, " I have 
told you, mamma, that I don't want either sympathy or 
medicine." 

" In the name of all that's sensible try and tell me what 
you do want, child !" 

" I want to see Arthur." Addle blushed as she spoke. 

" To see Arthur, indeed !" Here Mrs. Churchill passed the 
carefully-prepared dose to her daughter. " You are a pretty 
pair I I imagine he wants quinine and sea-air as much as you 
uo 



PARTIAL DISCOVERIES. / 121 

do. And now, forsooth, he must turn studious, ambitious of 
literary distinction, and what not. The next thing I shall 
hear about him is that he has taken to the editing of a popu- 
lar journal. Really, young people of the present day are 
past my comprehension altogether, and, Ad^le, you and 
Arthur carry matters to the verge of absurdity. You fall in 
love simultaneously with a pretty widow — whether a widow 
or not, Goodness alone knows — you suspend your oawi engage- 
ment for a time, as you assure one another, by mutual con- 
sent, and then begin the process of fading away, Arthur 
throwing himself into literature, and you into so-called 
chai'ity ; but, my dear" — here Mrs. Churchill grew severe — 
"I have always heard that charity begins at home. If char- 
ity consists in making your mother's life miserable, and 
allowing all kinds of absurd notions in the head of the man 
who is to be your husband (for I believe that these new fol- 
lies can't possibly outlive your teens), then, so far as I am 
concerned, the less of charity the better." 

AdSle during this harangue had turned her face from her 
mother. The answer came from the depths of the sofa-cush- 
ion in which she had buried her face : " I wish I hadn't told 
you, mamma." 

" Happily, I found out the greater part for myself." Mrs. 
Churchill was still severe. " Upon my word, Ad^le, it was 
dutiful to begin such a correspondence without your mother's 
consent or knowledge ; but perhaps I have spoken and thought 
enough on that subject already. Apropos of this Mrs. Grey 
of yours, I have heard something which will probably interest 
you. Of course it is not for me to say whether her name is 
really Mrs. Grey, but some of the incidents in the stories I 
heard seem to fit in rather strangely." 

" Mamma !" In Addle's excitement she rose to a sitting 
posture on the sofa and her cheeks flamed suddenly into an 
angry crimson. " You may say what you like ; I know that 
Margaret Grey is good and true, and it's too bad to believe in 
nobody." 

Her excitement rather alarmed good Mrs. Churchill. 
"Ad^le! Ad^le!" she said, "do, like a good child, make an 
effort to be reasonable. The next thing will be brain fever if 
you excite yourself in this way. Silly little goose ! try and 



122 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

beli'2 f e that your mother knows more of the world than you 
do. Some of these days you will be wiser." 

"Never so wise, I hope, as to think ill of everybody,'' 
said Addle, half sobbing after her excitement. 

" Well ! well!" said her mother soothingly, " only be patient 
and I will admit that everybody is angelic; indeed, after all, 
why should I take the trouble of pointing out the fallacy ? 
Circumstances will do that for you before you have lived 
many more years in the world. But about this Mrs. Grey. 
Very good I must call her to spare your feelings, and doubt- 
less very beautiful, or she could not have taken such violent 
possession of the heart and head of my impulsive little 
daughter. It is a pity, by the bye, Adele, that Providence 
did not see fit to make you a boy. It would have been possi- 
ble then for you to have devoted life and fortune to this in- 
teresting person, only I'm not so sure that there's not a linger- 
ing weakness for Arthur in your contradictory little heart. 
There, my dear ! don't blush about it; you will certainly have 
no roses for the evening if you expend them so liberally now, 
and pale cheeks don't suit your style." 

" As if I cared about my style, mamma !" 

" Well, if you don't. Addle, I do ; and as, at your age, 
rouge would be rather absurd, I must beg you to give us some 
of those pretty little blushes this evening. Perhaps you may 
be able to persuade Arthur to leave his books for a few hours 

and escort us to Lady C 's. Is music, by the bye, among 

the vanities to which he has sworn undying hatred? Signer 
Mario has promised her a song, and — ah ! I am so bad at 
names! — the great violinist — you remember, Mr. Godolphin 
was so wild about him — has promised to attend. But really. 
Addle," Mrs. Churchill gave an impatient sigh, "one might 
think you a worn-out woman of the world, or six seasons out 
at least ; vou take not the slightest interest in anything I tell 
you." 

Addle reddened : " I beg your pardon, mamma. !No doubt 
it will be pleasant, and the beautiful new necklace you gave 
me to-day will be thf -"^ery thing to wear. If Arthur comes 
in I shall ask him ; but what were you saying a few minutes 
ago about Mrs. Grey ?" 

" That interests you far more than either soiree or necklace, 



PARTIAL DISCOVERIES. 123 

I do believe. I wonder how it is, Adele, that you are so very 
different from other girls at your age ? What I have heard 
is, after all, not much ; and mind, if it excites you I shall leave 
off telling you at once. It does not redound particularly to 
the credit of your friend." 

Again Addle buried her face in the sofa-pillow : " Who told 
you, mamma ?" 

"You remember that handsome young Russian at Mrs. 
Gordon's the other night. He took me in to supper, and we 
got into conversation. Very frank and open these foreigners 
are — there is none of that English reserve about them. He 
told me at once what brought him to London. It seems he ia 
in search of an English friend, a certain Maurice Grey, who, 
after having made himself quite the rage in St. Petersburg 
(he was staying with the young count's father), suddenly dis- 
appeared, leaving no trace behind him. He would not let his 
friends know where he was going, nor did he write a single 
line to tell of his safe arrival at any point in his journey. It 
appears that one and another in St. Petersburg began talking 
about him, and it came out that he had let fall certain mys- 
terious hints about a great sorrow, weariness of life, and so 
on — in your romantic style, Adele. Whether he only wished 
to make himself interesting to the ladies — who seem to have 
been the chief movers of the rumor — does not precisely ap- 
pear: I should think it highly probable. However, St. 
Petersburg society took a different view. When a week 
passed and nothing was heard of Maurice Grey, his friends 
killed him — that is, they determined among themselves that 
he had killed himself. There seems to have been quite a fever 
of anxiety about the young man's -fate. At last the young 
count, to satisfy his fair relatives and friends — himself also, 
for he firmly believes in his English guest, mystery and all — 
came over here, thinking that in London he might find some 
clue to his whereabouts. And now comes the part of the story 
which may perhaps fit in with yours. There are a good 
many Greys, so I did not particularly interest myself until 
Count informed me by way of sequel that during a for- 
mer visit of his to Loudon his friend, Maurice Grey, had 
married one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. 
It was, of course, the prevailing idea in St. Petersburg that a 



124 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

woman had something to do with the Englishman's gloom, and 
as he never made the faintest allusion to his wife, it had been 
presumed that her conduct after marriage had caused a sepa- 
ration or a scandal of some kind. Count has set on foot 

an inquiry about this person. Mrs. Grey — Margaret, he told 
me, was her Christian name — must certainly be still living. 
He heard of her from her man of business, but her place of 
residence is, for some reason, kept a profound secret." 

Addle had risen from the sofa. She was listening to her 
mother's tale with earnest eyes fixed on her face. When it 
was over she gave a low, deep-drawn sigh : " Maurice, mam- 
ma ? Are you sure his name was Maurice ?" 

"The Englishman's, Addle? Yes, Count called 

him by that name once or twice in the course of our conver- 
sation." 

Addle clasped her hands : " Then there can be no doubt it 
is the same. That will explain her sadness. Some fearful 
misunderstanding has come between them. Oh how I wish I 

could see Count ! or if Arthur would only come ! 

Perhaps — mamma, how delightful it would be ! — perhaps we 
shall be able to set it all right — to make her happy again !" 

Mrs. Churchill groaned : " I thought my story would have 
had the effect of curing you. Addle ; and now I believe you 
are actually farther gone than ever with your enthusiasm and 
your poetic notions. When shall I teach you that all this is 
childish? 'Perhaps you will set all right' — 'make her life 
happy !' Perhaps, rather, you will obey your mother, and 
have nothing further to do with a person who has deceived 
her husband and is otherwise not at all correct. Why, if I 
don't very much mistake-^and I can say, without boasting, I 
think that I am always pretty well up in these matters — 
before the season is over your Mrs. Grey will be the talk of 

every dinner-table in Loudon, for Count tells his story 

freely, and he seems to have the entree everywhere. 'Miss 
Churchill's particular friend' — that would be a pleasant 
addition to the tale when repeated with sundry additions, my 
dear, in our circle of acquaintance. Thank Goodness! 
Arthur is the only person who knows anything of your absurd 
adventure, and his tongue is happily tied." 

Addle looked up indignantly : " Don't think that I shall 



GO AND SEE HEB. 125 

hide from anybody my friendship for Margaret Grey," she 
said ; " you may feel ashamed — I glory in it. All I regret 
is that I did so little for her when I had the opportunity." 
Then, softening, "If you had once seen her, mamma, you 
could never have believed these cruel tales." 

" I should have instantly fallen under the spell, no doubt, 
like you and Arthur ? No, Ad^le, it is long since a pretty 
face affected me so powerfully; indeed, I never remember 
being so absurdly romantic as you are. But, dear me ! there 
are visitors ; you look rather pale, so I suppose, for this one 
afternoon, I must let you off and leave you here with your 
book." 

Mrs. Churchill really loved her daughter, though she did 
not quite understand her, but she was certainly tolerably 
gentle toward what she looked upon as her follies. She 
stooped and kissed her on the brow before she left the room, 
saying, with something between a smile and a sigh, "Ah, my 
dear, perhaps some day you will understand your mother 
better." 

Ad6le returned the caress affectionately, but it was a relief 
to her when the door of her mother's boudoir closed behind 
her and she was left alone to think and plan, for the story of 
the Russian had thrown a new light on the subject that had 
engrossed her so much since that May afternoon in the 
Academy. 



CHAPTER 11. 
QO AND SEE HEB. 

Love's very pain is sweet. 

Miss Churchill was not allowed to indulge long in the 
luxury of solitude. Her mother had scarcely left her be- 
fore there was a well-known knock at the hall door, followed 
aftei a few moments' interval by a short, intimate tap at the 
door of the sitting-room, and Ad^le rose from her sofa and 
held out both hands eagerly to greet her cousin. 

Perhaps he did not respond with sufEcient warmth to her 
impulsive velcome, for the light of pleasure died quickly 



126 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

out of her face, she sank languidly into a chair and plunged 
headlong into commonplaces. "Are you going to Lady 

C 's to-night, Arthur ?" she asked ; " I hear there's to b( 

some first-rate music." 

"That means, I suppose, that you and Aunt Ellen want 
an escort." 

" That means nothing of the kind, Arthur. Surely mam 
ma is old enough to take care of herself and me withoul 
your assistance." 

"Pray don't take offence at such a small thing, Ad^le. 
They say, you know, that people who take offence lightly 
are in want of a real grievance." 

" Heaven knows I needn't look far for a grievance when you 
are concerned," said Ad^le bitterly. 

" You are the most forbearing of your sex, my fair cousin," 
returned he with provoking coolness. "In humble emulation 
of your patience behold me a willing listener to this list of 
grievances." 

He spoke with a half smile, then threw himself back in 
an arm-chair and assumed an appearance of rapt attention ; 
but Adele turned away to hide a treacherous tear. "I wonder 
how it is that we never meet without quarrelling now," she 
said plaintively. 

He shrugged his shoulders : " That, I fancy, is your affair, 
my little cousin ; you seem to take a delight in snapping me 
up, now-a-days; which being the case, what can I do but 
submit and give your woman's wit material to work upon?" 

Ad^le pouted : " Of course it is anybody's fault but your 
own, Arthur; but that's always the way with boys — they 
can't possibly be in fault." 

Arthur rose from his seat : " This may be, and no doubt 
is, highly interesting to you, Addle. I can't say that I feel 
the charm of sparring; but then, as you politely observe, I 
am only a boy, and boys are often unappreciative of women's 
fine sallies, therefore I think the boy must beg to be ex- 
cused." 

He held out his hand. Addle was on the point of taking 
him at his word and allowing him to leave her, but when 
she looked up at him her mood changed suddenly, for, after 
all, only her affection had made her peevish. It was a dif* 



GO AND SEE HER. 127 

ficult task Ad^le had set herself on that day when Arthur 
first let her into the secret of his love. She had begun 
grandly. In her, as in many of her sisters, the spirit of 
self-sacrifice was strong. On the altar of her great love for 
her cousin, her enthusiastic admiration for the woman of 
his choice, she had been ready to immolate everything; sL^ 
would throw her own wishes, her hopes, her future joy to 
the winds, so that they might be happy ; and if in that first 
moment she could have consummated her sacrifice, coidd 
have given them one to the other, she would have done it 
freely, whatever it might have cost hei*self. But the daily 
annoyance her sacrifice entailed ; the obligation of listening 
to her cousin's rhapsodies ; the knowledge that though with 
her in body his mind was far away ; even the light way in 
which he treated her unselfish exertions in his interest, — all 
these were somewhat hard to bear. 

In the conflict AdMe's health was giving way; she grew 
peevish and irritable. Her gayety and lightheartedness de- 
parted, she was not the amusing companion she had once 
been, and her cousin's visits were in consequence fewer. 
When he did come, it was only to pour out his heart on the 
subject which engrossed him — Margaret Grey. Generally 
she listened patiently, with an appearance of interest and 
sympathy; and this was all he desired. Arthur did not 
mean to be unkind — he was one of the most good-natured of 
his sex — but he had been so much accustomed to consider 
that what interested him would of necessity interest Ad^le that 
he could not have thought he was giving her pain, and with 
his every visit planting pin-pricks in her poor little heart. 

When, therefore, as sometimes happened in these days — 
for AdSle's weakness was beginning to prey upon her nerves 
— she showed herself impatient, was unsympathetic or irrita- 
ble, Arthur was, as on this occasion, surprised and offended, 
and deprived her for some days of the pleasure of his society. 

But this time Ad^le would not let him go off in ill-temper. 
She looked up, and her woman's heart was moved to self-for- 
getfulness. " Don't go yet, dear," she said, her voice trem- 
bling in spite of strenuous efforts to be calm ; " you must 
forgive my pettishness. I think what mamma says is true. 
I can't be very well just now. And you look pale and ill, my 



128 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

poor old fellow ; you shut yourself up too much with your 
books. You should leave London and go to some seaside 
place for a time." 

" I scarcely think the hoohs are to blame, Ad^le." Arthur 
gave a little sigh and glanced furtively at the mirror. 
Through all his new earnestness he had preserved the boyish 
weakness of a certain pleasure in interesting delicacy. " One 
must do something," he continued, pacing the room x*estlessly, 
" and I've been too long an idle good-for-nothing. I think 1 
have literary tastes. I have been looking up the classics with 
a view to a novel — something in Bulwer's style, you know, 
the scene laid in Athens during her palmy days ; or perhaps 
Palmyra, with all the details in the true antique. My hero- 
ine must be Greek, fine classic features, and that kind of 
thing. I have a grand description in my head. Shall I give 
it to you ?" 

AdMe smiled : " I think I could give it myself. Certainly 
I know the model. Am I right ?" 

Arthur had taken a seat again ; he buried his head in his 
hands : " I have had such a mad idea, Ad^le. But no ; to do 
her justice in any description would be impossible, absolutely 
impossible. It's easy enough to write about dark eyes and 
fine features and golden hair, but that would not be Marga- 
ret. It is the wonderful look in her face, that kind of spirit- 
ual beauty belonging neither to form nor coloring, which gives 
it its chief charm." 

" You are eloquent, dear," said Ad^le with a little sigh ; 
"if you write your book in that way, I think it must cer- 
tainly be a success." 

" Yes," said he pensively, " the public like reality, but, you 
see, one can't always give it. These kinds of things look cold 
on paper. If I could show you my multitudinous attempts 
ia prose and verse to give some idea of her ! but they were 
all poor and wishy-washy. The greater number enriched the 
ashes of my grate. I am a good-for-nothing, and I shall he 
a good-for-nothing to the end of the chapter." 

There was something of weariness and bitter self-contempt 
in Arthur's voice. It made Adze's heart ache for him. She 
knelt down by his side and put one of her arms round his 
neck. It was more the gesture of a tender little mother with 



\ 

GO AND SEE HER. 129 

ner child than of a woman with the man sh.e loves, for thia 
protecting motherliness was one great element in the affection 
of Adele for her cousin. No doubt it was this in a great 
measure that rendered it so unselfish. As a little child she 
had taken upon herself the punishment of his small faults — 
lis a grown-up girl she sought to shield him from every kind 
of ill. 

"Don't despair, dear," she said gently; "there is something 
for you to do — to do for her, if you can be wise and generous, 
and put yourself out of the way altogether. Do you remem- 
ber, Arthur" (Adele's voice grew soft and the tears were in 
her eyes), " how you used to come and sit here in the after- 
noon while I read to you from the Faerie Queene about those 
grand young knights going out in search of adventures — to 
rescue women and kill dragons and evil things ? And some- 
times we used to wish that those days would come back, and 
I imagined how I would send you out, all clothed in bright 
armor, to do great deeds in the world. Dear, I think your 
time for this has come. You are a true knight, you will for- 
get yourself, you will burn to redress a great wrong — es- 
pecially when she, your Margaret, is the victim." 

Addle's words were exciting. Arthur could barely listen 
with patience to the end of her tender little harangue, for a 
great light was burning behind it which set his spirit on 
flame. "Ad^le," he cried eagerly, "you have heard some- 
thing new about her. Tell me at once." 

" I heard it from mamma," she answered. And then, in 
as few words as possible, she repeated the story of the young 
Russian. " I have no doubt whatever about Margaret Grey 
being the Mrs. Grey in question," she said in conclusion. 
"You remember what I told you about her strange cry- 
when she thought she was alone in the room. Maurice Grey 
must be her husband. My idea is this: a misunderstanding 
is at the bottom of their misery — for he is evidently as miser- 
ible as she is — brought about by some one who was in love 
w;th her before — that tall man, vei:y likely, who looked in at 
the window and frightened her so much. A person who 
knew them both might possibly remove this and restore them 
to happiness. Arthur, \jou must be that person. There is 
only me drawback : if the people in St. Petersburg should 

9 



130 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

be riglit? if he has killed himself? Can you conceive any- 
thing more dreadful, she loving him all the time, as I know 
she does?" The idea turned Ad^le pale, but the hopefulness 
of youth reasserted itself. " I can't bring myself to believe 
it," she said earnestly. " He got tired of all his friends and 
the gayety, and they teased him, I dare say. It's not like an 
Englishman to put an end to himself in that kind of way. 
No ; I feel convinced that he will be found yet ; and, Arthur, 
you must find him." 

While Adele had been speaking Arthur had turned away 
from her. He was standing by the window, apparently 
watching the passers-by, but she could see, by the glimpse of 
his face that was still visible, that he was listening with in- 
tense interest. 

A fierce struggle was going on in his heart. Ad^le had 
often let him know that in her earnest belief all his hopes 
were futile. Arthur had hoped against hope. In spite of 
all she could say — in spite even of the cruel facts that sup- 
ported her theory — he reared in secret his airy fabric of hopes 
and dreams. He would work — work day by day and hour 
by hour. He should be known for a student, an author, a 
man of genius ; not as a boy, but as a man, with an acknow- 
ledged place in the world — a man worthy of her, if that 
were possible (which fact the ardent lover of both sexes is 
wont to doubt) — he would present himself before her with the 
tale of his ever-faithful love. 

She would be weary of solitude, she would be touched 
with his perseverance, she would grant him all he could de- 
sire. It was thus he always crowned his edifice, though the 
number of ways to its summit might have been named 
Legion. Now painting, now poetry, now science, now pol- 
itics, would be the friendly genius that might bring him at 
last to her feet. 

And in one moment the whole was changed. He was 
called upon to forget his dream or to expunge his own name 
from the fluted columns of his mansion in the clouds — never 
an easy task. I wonder who builds these chateaux en Espagne 
without self for at least one of the habitants. 

Unhappily, Adele's tale carried conviction. But " None 
are so blind as those who vnll not see." Arthur could not 



GO AND SEE HER. 131 

believe, because he would not. He did not answer for a few 
moments, then he turned, with a light laugh that sorely be- 
lied a certain haggard look in his young face: "You had 
better turn novelist, AdSle. Your plots would certainly be 
first-rate. Why, you have reared a mountain of certainty 
out of a grain of conjecture, I don't believe it," he con- 
tinued fiercely. But in his very fierceness was the contra- 
diction of his words. "You pretend to care for her, and 
yet you can listen to all these foolish tales !" 

It was rather an unkind accusation, since Ad^le had been 
doing her very utmost to show how implicitly she believed in 
Margaret's innocence and truth; but pain blinded Arthur 
for the moment, and made him cruel and unjust. 

Adele saw how it was with him, and she did not even ap- 
pear to resent his words. " Sit down again, Arthur dear," 
she said gently. " I am as anxious as you can be to get to 
the bottom of this mystery, but if we would do anything we 
must be calm and have our wits about us." 

" Say, rather, I must," returned Arthur, throwing himself 
down on a small chair at her feet and seizing one of h6r 
hands in a sudden access of penitence. " What a brute I 
am, exciting you in this way, my poor pale little cousin! 
Adele, you are wise and kind : I put myself in your hands. 
Whatshallldo?" 

Adele's lips quivered as if with a sudden pain, but the 
answer came out clear and firm : " Go and see her, Arthur ; 
find out the truth about all this. I think when you have once 
heard her story you will be in no further difiiculty." 

Arthur started up, his eyes glittering: "Shall I, Ad^le? 
Can I ? What if I offend her ?" 

"You will not, Arthur. Take my advice; this time, I 
think, it coincides with your own will. Pass me my writing- 
desk, dear. Here ! this is the address I have kept from you 
80 long. Take it, my poor old fellow, and go." 

He took it up and looked at it with gleaming eyes, for 
behind it he seemed to see the vision for which he had been 
thirsting so long. Adele had thrown herself back upon the 
eofa ; she looked pale and exhausted. From the little piece 
of paper Arthur had been studying so earnestly he turned 
his eyes to her. Something in her pale face touched him 



132 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

He felt a sudden pang of self-reproach, and kneeling down 
by her side he pressed one of her hands to his lips : " Adele, 
you are an angel ! I say it in sober earnest, worthy of one 
far better and worthier and nobler than I. Dear little cousin, 
I will take your advice. You shall see me again only when 
my fate is sealed — when I have seen her. Forgive me, and 
keep a little corner of your heart for me till my return." 

" Good-bye, dear." 

It was all Ad^le could say for the tears that would not be 
restrained. But she was happier. There was a feeling of 
settled calm in her heart to which it had long been a stranger. 
She had done what she could ; she was willing to leave the 
rest. 

He left her then, and she rose from the sofa to prepare for 
dinner and the gayeties of the evening. 



CHAPTER III. 

THE HOUSE IS EMPTY. 

All within is dark as night. 
In the windows is no light, 
And no murmur at the door, 
So frequent on its hinge before. 

And in the mean time what was she doing, the object of all 
this solicitude, the unconscious origin of so many storms of 
feeling ? 

"We left ner on the seashore, the wide ocean before her, the 
cool sands around her, with a white face and quivering nerves, 
and a heart that was sick with aching. For the interview 
had tried her sorely, and it left behind it no luminous trail, 
but rather a deep shadow that seemed for the moment to kill 
even the faint hope which her spirit had cherished through 
all its woe. 

What she looked upon as her own miserable weakness ter- 
rified her — filled her with a certain vague fear of such depths 
of darkness before her as hitherto she had never known. 
Pitfalls seemod yawning on every side. She was to herself 
like one who was drifting on alone, unprotected — not even 



THE HOUSE IS EMPTY. 133 

Bbielded by her woman's weakness — to meet some terrible 
fate. Sitting there, her head buried in her hands, she shivei ed 
and moaned, for the remembrance of that moment of weak- 
ness, when, as it seemed, only a trifle had saved hei from 
listening to the honeyed words of the tempter, and putl iag 
herself partially, at least, in his power, filled her with the 
bitterest humiliation. 

Another remembrance agitated her cruelly as she cast her 
thoughts over the interview. His last words had implied a 
mystery which her tortured brain strove in vain to fathom. 

Her husband, Laura's father ! had the child's instinct been 
true ? Could he be near them ? and if so, what did the threat 
mean ? Could he, her Maurice, have sought her with any 
but a friendly object? Yet this was what her tormentor had 
foreshadowed in his mysterious words. She could not cast 
them aside as unmeaning, the poison thrown out in the anger 
of disappointment, for she knew L'Estrange. He never spoke 
meaninglessly, and therefore his words had weight. Besides, 
he was one who understood his kind — who could trace with 
the keen eye of a master the purposes of those with whom he 
came into contact. 

Observation and deduction had been carried by this strange 
man to such an extent in the course of his ceaseless wander- 
ings, that at last they had reached almost the rank of a 
science. In ancient days his acuteness would have earned for 
him the unenviable notoriety of the wizard ; men would have 
imagined that he had dealings with the powers of darkness. 
Indeed, as it was, Margaret and her friends had often been 
perfectly astounded by the accuracy of his predictions, based 
on grounds to them undiscoverable, for they never failed of 
verification. 

Connecting the past with the present, Margaret's brain — 
unhealthily active in this her hour of deepest misery —began 
to trace for itself a theory to account for the mysterious 
words, which clung to it like a subtle poison. He had met 
her husband, she said to herself; he had found out, by the 
marvellous povver he possessed, that no friendly purpose had 
brought him to the vicinity of his wife — that he was hostile 
to her still, that some new misery was in store for her. 

But what could it be ? Could her sufierings be increased ? 



134 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

She had risen from her seat. In the restlessness of her spirit 
movement seemed a necessity. She had walked with uncon- 
scious rapidity to some distance along the shore. Suddenly, 
as she reached this point in her theory of possibilities, she 
stopped : coveriiig her face with both hands, she uttered a low 
cry and sank down upon the grassy edge of the cliff. There 
had come to her mind, like a fatal knell, one sentence of her 
tormentor's speech — "In all hearts there is one assailable 
point" — and it brought a picture to her mind. 

She seemed to see the pensive, half-melancholy eyes, the 
golden curls, the graceful, childish form of her little Laura, 
and as she saw she realized what her affection for the child 
had become during the last few weeks — how the little one waa 
her hope, her joy, the sheet-anchor of her soul. 

But Laura was his. Could it be that he would take away 
her treasure and punish her afresh by an added loneliness — 
by letting her know that he felt her unworthy to be the 
guardian of his child after the age when the young soul is 
plastic and open to impressions? It was unlike Maurice. 
Ah, how unlike ! pleaded the weary heart ; but misery had 
been known to change men utterly was the answer of the 
brain, grown morbid by lonely pondering ; and that Maurice, 
with his earnest craving for sympathy, could have been any- 
thing but miserable through those long months was impos- 
sible. 

But he could not remove her without warning. He would 
see his wife, he would speak to her ; Heaven, in its mercy, 
would give her one more opportunity. This she said to her- 
self as she sat almost helpless by the cliff, crushed by the 
dreary possibilities which this new presentiment of evil had 
brought to her mind. And with this idea came a desire for 
action. Even at that moment, as she sat there inert, he might 
be at the cottage waiting with impatience for her return, 
wondering at her long absence from his child. 

She sprang to her feet and began rapidly to retrace her 
steps, skirting the sand-cliff that rose up from the shore. By 
this time evening had come. The little ones were being mar- 
shalled by their nurses for home and bod, two or three loving 
pairs were pacing the yellow sands, the sun was stooping 
do»/n in ruddy glory to the rest of his ocean bed, there was a 



THE SOUSE IS EMPTY. 135 

fragrant steam from the fields of clover and cowslip, a liush 
as of coming repose upon everything ; but what can stay the 
tumult of the soul ? 

Like the fabled lo of the Greek, she may wander hither 
and thither, the lulling sounds and the restful sights of Na- 
ture may wrap their calm around her, but only externally. 
When the gad-fly of stinging misery follows evermore in her 
track, what are all these ? Nothing, less than nothing, or a 
mocking echo of that to which she can never attain. 

Something of this Margaret felt that evening as, through 
the torturing consciousness of a new possibility of anguish, 
she looked upon the fair outer world. Nature was too calm, 
too fair — she was antagonistic to the mood of the lonely, suf- 
fering woman. 

Margaret had wandered farther than she thought, and the 
sun had already dipped below the western horizon before she 
saw her cottage. It was lying in the shadow, not touched by 
the sunset glory. To her imagination, distraught by the ex- 
periences of the day, it looked cold and blighted. 

She stopped when she saw it. Almost it appeared to her 
as if she could not go farther to meet the realization of her 
dread. Everything looked so still — no little white fairy at 
the garden gate watching for mamma, not a sound among the 
trees. How could she go on into the desolate solitude ? But, 
after a moment's pause, her strength returned. If the blovf 
had indeed fallen no delay could avert it. On then, up to 
the little gate, through the • garden, with still the same chill- 
ing silence. No little face at the window, no sound of merry 
laughter, no light bounding steps. The hall door was open ; 
she passed in. With haggard face she peered into the rooms, 
hoping against hope for a sight of that tiny figure. 

The child would be asleep perhaps, wearied out by the 
pleasant fatigue of the bright day : she would be found be- 
hind sofa or ottoman or curtains, curled up like a kitten, or 
tired out with watching for mamma, she had thrown herself 
down on her little bed. Like one who seeks thirstily for hid 
treasure, Margaret looked, her soul in her eyes, into every 
nook and corner of her little domain : corners possible and 
impossible she searched, for the mother's heart within was cry- 
ing out, and she could not despair until nothing else would be 



136 CHASTE AS ICE, FVRE AS S^^OW. 

possible. She was so absorbed in her hopeless task that she 
did not know she was being watched, that a pair of lynx eyes, 
in which cool triumph was shining, noted her every movement; 
that when at last, worn out and despairing, she crept, like one 
who has received a death-wound, into her sitting-room and 
threw herself down, almost lost to the knowledge of what she 
was doing, upon hands and knees to the ground in her ex- 
ceeding agony, her servant was glorying in her fall, triumph- 
ing at her expense ; but so it was. Jane Rodgers's hour had 
come. Her lodger was paying, and paying dearly, for her 
insolence. 

She did not wish to be discovered, and she had seen enough 
to assure herself that the blow had told. Retreating softly 
from the hall, with a smile on her lips that was not a pleasant 
one to look upon, she returned to her comfortable kitchen, 
leaving her mistress alone in her agony. 

Jane Rodgers had one anxiety. She. muttered its import to 
herself as she stooped over the fire to turn a piece of bacon 
which was frizzing merrily for her tea. "Trouble do some- 
times kill people ; it wouldn't do to have a death in the house, 
and she looked queer ; but there ! sheiil get over it, and per- 
haps be a trifle civiller for the future." 

So even this anxiety, as it appeared, did not affect Jane 
very severely. She lifted the frying-pan carefully from the 
fire, placed its contents in a plate that had been warming in the 
oven, and sat down to enjoy her tea in peace. 

To Margaret it seemed as if all the glory had gone from 
earth True, her desolation had "been grievous at times, but 
she had ever possessed some consolation ; now in a moment all 
seemed rent from her. Hope, for if he had ever wished to 
see her again in this world he would not have taken away 
her little one ; love, for the clinging affection which had be- 
come so precious would nevermore surround her — Laura 
would be taught to forget, perhaps even to despise, her 
mother ; peace, for if her husband was so terribly changed, 
ho^ would ho bring up their daughter ? and, doing his very 
best, could he surround her with the watchful care of a wo- 
man — a mother ? — Laura, as her mother had learned, was so 
sensitive and tender ; joy, for she was alone, uncared for, a 
widowed wife, a childless mother. 



TEE HOUSE IS EMPTY. 137 

On(! after another came these cruel thoughts to crush her 
as she crouched down upon the ground, pluckhig with nerv- 
ous, aimless fingers at the sofa-trimmings. For the last stroke 
had told. The poor heart was incapable of bearing more. 
Margaret's mind was in danger. She was standing, though 
she knew it not, on the border-land which skirts the dark re* 
gion of insanity. A little more of this heart-dissecting tor- 
ture and that numbing, more to be dreaded than the keenest 
pain, would of necessity be the result, and the beautiful, fair- 
souled woman be changed, by the mysterious action of disease, 
into a maniac, a pitiable object in the sight of God and men. 
Was this last, this bitterest woe reserved for her ? 

No : suddenly the consciousness of the new danger dawned 
upon her. She caught the wild, wandering thoughts and 
sternly brought them to bay; then, shuddering, she threw 
herself on her knees. 

"My God," she cried piteously, "send me death in thy 
mercy — death before madness — for I can bear no more, no 
more." 

Her voice sank to a sobbing sigh, but the prayer seemed to 
have stayed the fever of her brain. The white terror left her 
face ; she even smiled to feel the pain deadening, though with 
the deadening came a chill that froze the warm life-blood in 
her veins. Her satisfaction was but momentary. She stag- 
gered to her feet. Was this, then, the deatli she had craved ? 
And with a pang she recognized her folly, she would fain 
have recalled her prayer ; for life, sweet life, is precious, even 
to the wretched, when they are called upon to face the dark 
reality we call death. Life cannot be utterly reft of hope. 
To the most forlorn it holds out a future, and what is this 
future but the possibility of better things to come ? The 
time might yet come when Margaret would be able to look 
for another and more certain future — a future to which death 
is but the prelude. That time had not yet arrived. Her 
treasures, though swept from her grasp by the hand of a 
wayward fate, were still in the warm lap of earth ; and warm 
is that lap to the heart when its withdrawal is threatened aa 
a something not vaguely distant, but near and certain. 

It took but a moment for these thoughts to flash through 
Margaret's brain, for stealthily the chill crept over her. She 



138 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

made a few steps forward to gain the window, but it was too 
rapid for her. Gasping, she fell back heavily to the ground. 



CHAPTER IV. 
JANE'S BEVENOE. 

For very fear unnethes may she go, 
She weeped, wailed, all a day or two, 
And swooned, that it rathe was to see. 

Jane Rodgers had discussed the bacon, and, as she was a 
tidy woman, the plate was put carefully aside for washing 
while she ruminated quietly over her last cup of tea — a par- 
ticularly good one, black as ink, hot as an earthenware pot 
that had been some time on the hob could' make it, rendered 
delicate by a few drops of rich, yellow cream, and extremely 
palatable by two lumps of white sugar. 

Jane was not always so extravagant, but tea was her weak 
point. Her hard face looked almost pleasant for the moment, 
she was so thorougly comfortable. 

Apparently the meditations that enlivened the kindly cup 
were of an agreeable nature, for she smiled once or twice, and 
occasionally cast a glance of infinite content on the dresser, 
where, nestling among the bright crockery, lay a little knitted 
purse, from the meshes of which something closely resembling 
yellow gold was gleaming. A large black cat was purring 
by the fire ; in her satisfaction Jane stooped and stroked its 
soft fur caressingly. But nothing in the house seemed to be 
stirring, and, in spite of her pleasant reflections and the abun- 
dant comfort that surrounded her, Jane began to feel, as the 
darkness gathered, a certain creeping sense of uneasiness. 
She addressed the cat, for when people feel this loneliness 
even a dumb creature seems a companion. " Pussy," she 
8aid, stooping again to caress it, "it's lonesome here to-night. 
What's she doing, I wonder, up there by herself? We'll 
light the candles and take them up." 

As Jane spoke she rose from her seat and stretched out her 
hand to take the lucifer matches from the chimney-piece. But 
ehe did not draw it back so quickly. Her hand was stayed 



JANE'S REVENGE. 139 

by a sudden horror. The stillness in the house was broken, 
liere came from overhead the sound of a dull thud, as if a 
body had fallen heavily to the ground. The sound was fol- 
lowed by a silence more oppressive even than before. 

Jane Rodgers was a coward, and like many uneducated 
people extremely superstitious. The sound came from the 
room where she had left her mistress about half an hour 
before, " looking," as she had expressed it, '•' rather queer." 
She was the only person in the room ; the sound had come 
from a heavy fall. It must, then, have been Mrs. Grey her- 
self who had fallen. Had the trouble crushed her utterly? 
Was she dead ? The bare supposition sent every particle of 
blood from Jane's face. She turned as pale as death. There 
rose up, in a grim host before her mind, some of the many 
ghost-stories that are the terror of the ignorant. If she were 
dead she would certainly return again to haunt the unfaithful 
servant, for Jane had a vague idea that death could clear up 
mysteries. And in what form would the injured lady come ? 
Perhaps every evening at nightfall that sound of heavy fall- 
ing would be heard, only muffled and terror-laden ; perhaps 
as a sheeted ghost she would haunt the bedside of her unfaith- 
ful servant ; perhaps — But Jane could scarcely bear to con- 
jecture further ; even certainty, however dreadful, would be 
better than this vague sense of horror. 

With a hand made tremulous by fear she lit a candle. 
From Ajax downward human nature is the same. Whatever 
be the danger, darkness gives it an added horror. Jane Rod- 
gers with her candle in her hand felt much braver than Jane 
Rodgers in the dark. 

She paused for a moment on the thr^hold of Mrs. Grey's 
sitting-room, and applied first her ear and then her eye to the 
keyhole. Her ear told her that there was within the room a 
silence as of death ; her eye could distinguish nothing through 
the gloom. In her superstitious horror she was on the point 
of running away from the door and from the house, but there 
:ame another dim perspective of future uneasiness to delay her. 

If the lady were indeed dead — and Jane had almost come 
to this conclusion — it was a fact that could not be hidden. 
Her body would be found, then the neighbors would talk, the 
inquest would follow, and the cross-examination about her own 



140 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

whereabouts, as the landlady and servant, at the time of the 
accident. How would she be able to stand this ? Then, if 
it should be found out that she, the jjattern of strong-minded- 
ness, she who talked in the village about her experience and 
knowledge of the world, who was known far and near as a 
person equal to any emergency — that she had turned tail like 
a frightened dog and fled from imaginary dangers, how would 
she bear the ridicule and contempt of her fellows ? 

These last considerations decided her ; she opened the door 
of her mistress's sitting-room and peered in cautiously. 

What she saw realized for the moment her worst fears. 
Margaret was stretched on the carpet rigid and motionless, 
her hands were clenched, her feet were drawn up under her ; 
the attitude was that of one who had suddenly yielded in a 
struggle with dire agony. 

Shading her candle with her hand, for the night-winds were 
sweeping through the room, and with a face almost as white 
as that she looked on, Jane Rodgers crept near to the pros- 
trate lady. Jane had seen something of illness, and in her 
days of domestic service had been considered a good nurse ; 
indeed, she had looked, and looked unflinchingly, on the face 
of death itself more than once in her life. What alarmed 
her so much on this occasion was the attendant circumstances, 
which had called into play the cowardly and superstitious 
side of her nature. The white face of her wronged mistress 
seemed to call for vengeance, while something whispered tc 
Jane that the vengeance would come, and in a terrible form. 

But as sh-e drew near to Margaret her terror grew less. 
Her experienced eye, as soon as she was sufiiciently herself 
to look at the matter calmly, told her that this was not 
death, but only a kind of fainting-fit, produced probably by 
strong mental excitement. Her first feeling was one of in- 
tense relief — her second, of indignation against the uncon- 
scious cause of her alarm. 

" A body would think," she muttered, ■ ' that she'd done it 
a purpose." 

As she spoke she lifted the fainting lady — without much 
diflSculty, for Margaret had grown very thin, and Jane's 
physical strength was extraordinary — and laid her on the 
bed in the next room. Then with some roughness she pro* 



JANE'S REVENGE. Ill 

<.eeded to use the various remedies — splashed water in unne- 
cessary quantities into her mistress's face, and rubbed Mar- 
garet's soft palms with her bony fingers. 

It was a rough and ready mode of proceeding, but it 
proved effectual. Margaret opened her eyes and looked 
round her, perfectly bewildered at her position, Jane Rod- 
gers's hard face was the first object that met her gaze ; feeling 
round her, she discovered that water was dripping from her 
face and hair. 

She tried to rise. " Where am I ?" she said faintly. 

"Lie still," replied Jane authoritatively, holding her down 
witli that vice-like grasp which is so irritating to the weak. 
" You've been and fainted," she continued sullenly — " Good- 
ness knows for why — and frightening the very breath out of 
my body ; but if this kind of thing is to go on, you must 
find some other place, or else get a woman in. I've too 
much to do in the house to be giving my time continual to 
nurse-tending." 

The rude speech was almost lost upon Margaret, for mem- 
ory \vas awaking from its sleep; the events of the day 
were returning gradually to her mind. "Yes," she said 
slowly; "I remember now. I suppose I fainted." Then 
rising to a sitting posture she fixed her large eyes on her 
servant's face. 

The face was so white in its strange chiselled beauty, the 
eyes were so wild and mournful, that for the moment Jane's 
superstitious fears returned. 

" Lor !" she said hastily, " don't look at a body like that, 
there's a dear. Come — Miss Laura '11 come back, never you 
fear. Children isn't lost in that way." 

" Where is Miss Laura gone ?" Margaret's voice was very 
low, her eyes were still fixed on her servant's face. 

Jane placed the candle on the table and turned aside to 
pull down the window-blind and arrange the curtains. " I'll 
tell you all about it," she said soothingly, "if you'll lie down 
quiet. Miss Laura, she came in alone, and I give her her 
dinner ; after dinner she sits down with her picture-book. 
Presently a gentleman came in at the garden-gate ; I, as it 
might be in the kitchen, see Miss Laura, from the window, a 
running out, quite pleased like to meet him. Them two go 



142 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW, 

into the sitting-room, and then Miss Laura, she come running 
down into the kitchen. ' Jane,' she says, ' my hat, quick ; 
it's my papa, and we're going to meet mamma on the sands/ 
Miss Laura, as your orders is, mustn't never be contradicted, 
Bo I get her hat, and off they go together through the gar- 
den-gate. I see them walk along the sands, and thinks I to 
myself, 'I'll get tea ready, for they'll find missis, and aP 
come in together.' So now you know as much as I do. for 
Miss Laura ain't come back all the afternoon." 

As Jane spoke she turned her face, which expressed noth- 
ing but conscious virtue, to her mistress. Margaret was 
writhing on the bed as if she had been suffering from some 
keen physical pain, 

" What was he like — this gentleman who came in I mean ?" 
she asked in a low, weak voice. A last hope, a very faint 
one, was struggling with her misery. 

" Difficult to say ea;act," replied Jane, rather hesitatingly j 
then, as though repeating a lesson, " He be tall, as far as T 
remember, and good-looking, dark hair and whiskers, and 
eyes like Miss Laura's own." 

It was all Margaret wanted to know. "Thank you, 
Jane," she replied quietly, "you may go now. Don't be 
alarmed," she continued, half smiling, as the woman hesi- 
tated on the threshold, " I shall not faint again." 

" But you'll take something," said Jane, a certain feeling 
of compunction pricking the small remnant of a heart she 
still possessed ; " come, have a glass of wine, like a dear." 

" You may bring a glass and put it down by the bedside," 
she replied, so calmly that Jane went away quite bewildered 
and a little frightened still. '■' There," when she returned 
with the glass, "that will do ; thank you. Now good-night." 

When Jane had left her Margaret looked round, and her 
worst enemy would have felt a pang of remorse could he have 
noted the white, haggard desolation which that day's suffer- 
ing had left upon her face. Holding by the bedpost for sup- 
port, she raised herself and felt along by the bits of furniture 
till she came to Laura's little cot. There she paused. Kneel- 
ing down beside it, she kissed the pillow where the cliild'a 
head had rested only the night before. 

" My Laura," she murmured faintly, " my child — mine—' 



THE LAWYER IN HIS OWN DOMAIN. 143 

mine;" and then again, "His, not mine — mine no longer. 
God forgive me ! I did not prize my treasure, and now it is 
taken from me for ever," 

The little pillow was clasped to the breast of the bereaved 
mother as if it had been her child, for she scarcely knew what 
she was doing ; that torpor of brain had seized her once more. 
Sinking to the ground, she rocked it to and fro in her arms, 
murmuring over it soft words of endearment 

And thus at last sleep, the nursing-mother of the wretched, 
found Margaret Grey. Well for her that it came when it 
did, for her mind could scarcely have borne at this time a 
more continued pressure. With her cheek resting on the pil- 
low, which was wet with her abundant tears, and her back 
against the iron supports of her child's bed, Margaret forgot 
all her sorrow for the time in the arms of " Nature's sweet re- 
storer, balmy sleep." 



CHAPTER V. 
THE LA WYEB IN HIS OWN DOMAIN. 

Overreach, 'Tia a rich man's pride I there having ever been 
More than a feud, a strange antipathy, 
Between us and true gentry. 

Mr. Robinson had not forgotten Mrs. Grey, nor the little 
business which she had confided to him. With his usual tact 
and judgment he had secured his bird, the bird in this case 
being their common debtor. Like a clap of thunder, one 
fine morning the news reached this worthy that his account 
had been attached at the bank by the man who for some time 
had acted as his solicitor. 

He was on his knees at once with abject entreaties, and Mr. 
Robinson, who Avas too Christian-hearted to wish to crush a 
xellow-creature, consented to act for him again, thereby in a 
measure restoring his credit, but only on one condition — that 
he should receive without delay the amount owing for his 
somewhat exorbitant lawyer's bill. 

"But what am I to do, my good sir?" faltered the man; 
" all I possess is in your hands." 



144 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

"And nothing much to boast about," replied the lawyer 
quietly; "but, sir, you will not presume to tell me that all 
you possess is in the hands of your banker ? Pray reflect a 
moment. In the dealings between man and man, especially 
when they hold the relation of solicitor and client — a relation 
which I trust will be resumed between us when this matter is 
adjusted — there must be frankness, honesty. Come now" — 
he spoke jovially — "about that fine house of furniture?" 

" My wife's, I assure you — bought with her money." 

The lawyer's face fell perceptibly : " Settled then ?" 

" Not precisely, but the same thing ; you see it was in fact 
a wedding-present from her father, a man in an excellent 
position, Mr. Robinson." 

"Ah!" Mr. Robinson showed his teeth. "Law doesn't 
recognize sentiment, my dear sir — a pity, clearly, but so it is. 
The furniture is yours to dispose of as you will." 

The unfortunate man first flushed, then turned pale. 
" And what has this to do with it ?" he asked rather angrily. 

The lawyer raised his hand: "Calmly, calmly. These 
matters should be looked in the face, sir — looked in the face. 
I only speak in your own interest : that little balance at the 
bank — very little indeed, I think — is all you have to look to 
if you wish to set up again. I (remember, sir, I too Lave a 
wife and children) must be firm in this matter. A bill of 
sale on this furniture of yours — or of your wife's, if you 
will — can be given to me as security ; I will then release your 
account and set you on your feet again. What do you say ?" 

" If it must be, it must be," replied the man with some- 
thing between a groan and a sneer. 

Mrs. Grey's name, or that unfortunate mortgage of the 
interest on which not a penny had been seen for the last 
year, was not, as it will be noticed, mentioned between them. 
One allusion only was made to it. 

"We'll allow you to make a start," said Mr. Robinson 
benevolently, " and after that it will be time enough to look 
into those other little matters that are between us still." 

" Those other little matters !" The bare mention of them 
made the unfortunate wince, especially when the reference 
was made to the accompaniment of Mr. Robinson's hard 
•mile and cold, blue-steel gaze ; but he hoped on, as men in 



THE LAWYER IN HIS OWN DOMAIN. 145 

his position will hope, for a stroke of luck, a good specula- 
tion, something to raise his status in the monetary world. 

He drew on his gloves hurriedly: "Yes, yes, ray good 
fvieud, as you so kindly say, time enough ; I must feel my 
logs before I disburse, and to pay up at present would be 
out-and-out ruin. In the mean time you may rely upon me. 
My affairs are in your hands." 

So Mr. Robinson felt, and he rubbed his hands pleasantly. 
The consciousness of power was always agreeable to him. 
" I hope so, I hope so," he replied briskly. " Let me assure 
you, sir, that I shall watch you narrowly In my client's 
interests you know it is incumbent on me to be firm." 

" But in your own firmer," muttered the man between his 
teeth as he went down stairs. "What precious humbugs 
these lawyers are ! If I were only out of this one's hands !" 

He clenched his fist and his brows contracted. That "bill 
of sale " was rankling in his mind, but moaning could not 
mend matters, and he was by no means the only one whom 
Mr. Robinson held that day, writhing but submissive, under 
his cunning hand. 

He smiled when the door closed behind his client. This 
man's tastefully-decorated house had often awakened in the 
lawyer's mind not envy, malice, guile and all uncharitable- 
ness, for Mr. Robinson was a consistent man, but a certain 
keen admiration that perhaps, looking at it in the light of 
the sequel, might have passed very well for their counterfeit. 

The furniture he had admired was in his power ; this 
made the lawyer smile, but the smile passed into a business 
frown as a timid rap at the door announced the approach of 
one of his clerks. 

He was bringing in the letters from the last post, and pre- 
senting those that had been written for the signature of the 
head of the firm. Mr. Robinson proceeded slowly to inspect 
his letters, the young man standing near him in a quietly 
respectful attitude. 

" Mr. Moon been written to ?" he inquired curtly. 

"Yes, sir." 

"And Mrs. Grey?" 

"A letter from her, sir, on the table." 

" Right ! — wait a moment." 
10 



146 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Mr. Robinson did everything in a quiet, business-like way 
He proceeded with great deliberation to open his letters one 
by one, using a paper-cutter for the purpose, intil be came 
to the one in question. 

" Have you got Mrs. Grey's letter there ? Ah !" He tore 
it across, and threw the pieces into the waste-paper basket at 
his side. "Tell "Wilson I will write myself — something 
wrong there. What are you waiting for? Do you want 
anything ?" 

" Only to say, sir, that you promised — ^that is, I mean — " 

" Say what you mean — can't you ? — and don't stand there 
wasting my time and your own." 

The young fellow's features twitched nervously. He was 
of good birth and breeding, though so poor as to accept, 
and accept thankfully, the miserable pittance of a lawyer's 
clerk. 

" I have been with you three years, sir," he said with some 
dignity ; " you promised my mother that if I gave you satis- 
faction you would give me my articles. My mother has 
requested me to ask you whether this promise is to be ful- 
filled. My poor father — " 

The young man spoke easily now ; he was warming to his 
theme. His poor father had made Mr. Robinson's fortunes. 

As a man of the world he had taken him up, introduced 
him to his circle, a large one and influential, and by his rec- 
ommendations gained for him clients innumerable. 

He was dead, and before his death, by an unfortunate series 
of speculations, had ruined his family. His sons had been 
trained at school and college, they were at home in the hunt- 
ing-field, they excelled in all kinds of manly sports, their 
pleasant accomplishments and gentlemanly ease made them 
welcome in every society, but as men of business they were 
practically useless. 

Mr. Robinson had been accustomed, only when their father'i 
back was turned, to sneer at them for fine gentlemen. Noth 
ing aroused his jealous ire so much as the sight of what hv^ 
was pleased to call a fine gentleman, for Mr. Robinson had « 
certain innate consciousness which more of his class possesa 
than we generally imagine. It was this : he knew that m 
the world he might do his own will, coin money by the hanu- 



THE LAWYER IN HIS' OWN DOMAIN. 147 

in! ^for in his temperament and constitution were all the ele- 
ments of success), become rich, powerful, sought out : one dis- 
tinction he could never reach. The quiet ease, the graceful 
nonchalance, the tone of high breeding which a fine gentle- 
man possesses, as it were, by instinct, was and would always 
remain beyond him. And therefore he professed to despise 
the class. 

" Tush ! tush I" he said, breaking short the young man's 
allusion to him who had been his friend in those days when 
he, the great Mr. Robinson, had been climbing painfully j 
" don't you attempt to bring home tales to me or I'll make 
short work with you. There shall be no snivelling here. 
Mind you, it is only respect for your father's memory that 
induces me to keep you at all. You're not worth your salt. 
As to giving you your articles, what good do you suppose that 
would do you ? Be ofi*! mind your work, and let me have 
no more of such whining." 

James Robinson was enjoying himself. His blue-gray eyes 
flashed and a smile curled his lips. To put down a fine gen- 
tleman was the finest piece of fun in the world, but this time 
he had gone too far. Suddenly the boy changed ; manhood 
and manly purposes seemed to look out from his eyes, the 
obsequious attitude had gone, he approached his master, aud 
dared to look him fully and fearlessly in the face : " Then, 
Mr. Robinson, hear me. I will sit down no more to your 
desk ; I will bear your insolence no longer. My mother and 
I believed you had ofiered me a situation out of kindness and 
gratitude ; yes — glare at me if you will ; I repeat it — grati- 
tude to my father's memory. We thought your intentions 
honest, and the peculiar ungentlemanliness of your conduct 
to be attributed only to j'^our want of good breeding. I may 
tell you that yesterday I was offered, and offered pressingly, 
what you refuse so insultingly to-day, and by a far better and 
older firm than yours. I thought I owed you a certain duty., 
and would not accept it until I had put you in mind of your 
promise. Now I have heard you, and once and for ever I 
shake myself free of you, only humiliated that for three long 
^ears I should have associated daily with so base and low a 
nature." 

He turned on his heel, he was gone, leaving Mr. Robinson 



148 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

in a white heat of rage and indignation. He had been hear- 
ing home-truths for once, and, what was still worse, hearing 
them in his own domain, the kingdom he had been accustomed 
to rule with a rod of iron. For a moment he was utterly 
taken aback, breathless, but lest the contagion should spread 
self-control and swift action were necessary. 

" Let him go, the insolent young beggar !" he muttered ; 
then turning he rang his bell. The office-boy appeared: 
" Sond Mr. Wilson here." There was a notable change in 
his voice ; the bully had gone from it, preparation was being 
made for the impressive chapel tone. 

Mr. Wilson, the head-clerk of the firm, found his chief 
rather pale and exhausted, leaning back in his chair. 

" Sit down, Wilson," he said with unusual urbanity ; " I 
must have a few words with you." 

The flattered Wilson obeyed. 

" You noticed, I dare say," he continued after a pause, 
" that young McArthur went out in something of a hurry just 
nowf 

" Yes, sir." 

" I am sorry to say that I have been obliged to perform a 
very painful duty. I will not enter into details. My deep 
respect for the unfortunate youth's family, and especially the 
memory of his father — a true Christian, Wilson, one who 
sleeps in peace — makes me wish that as far as possible this 
should be kept a profound secret. Of course I have dismissed 
McArthur. It was a duty, and from duty, however painful, 
the Christian never shrinks." Mr. Robinson paused to draw 
his white handkerchief over his brow. The force of habit is 
strong. He imagined himself for the moment on the platform 
of a gospel-hall. " If he had been ray own son " — Mr. Rob- 
inson's face expressed proud consciousness that a Robinson 
could never demean himself in so mysterious a way — " if he 
had been my own son I could not have felt the matter more 
keenly ; nor indeed could I have acted differently ; the posi- 
tion I hold enforces upon me a certain responsibility. But 
this is all to no purpose — a few words drawn from me, as I 
might say, by excess of feeling on this painful occasion. 
What I particularly wished to say to you, Wilson, is this : it 
is my desire that no questions shall be asked in the house 



THE LAWYER IN HJS OWN DOMAIN. 149 

about this unfortunate boy or his sudden dismissal. You 
may say, if you like, that he was discontented, tired of the 
monotony of ofRce-life — anything ; my only wish is that he 
should be shielded from exposure. I would give him a chance 
of buckling to once more. Heaven grant, if only for his 
poor mother's sake, that he may see the error of his ways I 
But we are wasting time over this unhappy youth. Well, 
human nature is human nature, and my feelings toward him 
were those of a father. Ah ! I remember one thing more. 
It is my special wish that none of my clerks shall have inter- 
course of any kind with young McArthur. You will under- 
stand me, Wilson. The young man is indignant at discovery 
— not as yet, I fear, truly penitent. He may wish to injure 
the firm. We must be on our guard." 

Mr. AVilson was clever as a man of business, but he did not 
possess much penetration. He cherished a blind admiration 
for bis chief, and was quite ready to look upon his every 
statement as gospel. On this occasion he did not even stop 
to consider how very vague and guarded was all that Mr 
Robinson had said about the young man he professed to have 
dismissed ; he was satisfied in his own mind that something 
dark lay behind these vague phrases, and was ready to help 
his chief to neutralize the mischief. 

"All right, sir," he replied quietly; "I will see to the young 
fellows, but I scarcely think Mr. McArthur will venture to 
show his face here. A pity, too — a fine young man, and tol- 
erably smart, his bringiug-up considered." 

" Ah ! there it is," replied Mr. Robinson, with unction. 
"Pride, Wilson, pride, the crying sin of our fallen nature. 
His briuging-up was his ruin. But enough about him. Any- 
thing particular for me to-morrow ?" 

" No, sir ; we can manage very well. You think of going 
into the country ?" 

" On business. Mrs. Grey is in some new trouble. Unfor- 
tunate woman ! I suppose I had better see after the raattei 
myself. I verily believe she has no friend in the wide wcrid 
but me. Queer person, too — can't quite make her out. Send 
up the rest of the letters, Wilson, and if there should be any- 
thing of importance, telegraph to this address. I may proba- 
bly be two or three days away." 



150 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS ^2^0]V. 

Wilson retired, and Mr. Robinson proceeded to inspect the 
time tables of the Great Northern. A little change in the 
early summer weather would do him a world of good, and 
Mrs. Grey's business could easily be prolonged. 

Before the letters came in for signature he had decided en 
an early-morning train, and was already enjoying by antici- 
pation the luxury of a series of drives along the coast. 



CHAPTER VI. 
MB. ROBINSON PBOMISES TO DO HIS BEST. 

But all was false and hollow ; though his tongue 
Dropp'd manna, and could make the worse appear 
The better reason, to perplex and dash 
Maturest counsels. 

" Let us look at the matter in this light, Mrs. Grey." The 
speaker was Mr. Robinson, and his tone was particularly lively. 
" Your husband has cause, fancied or real — for the sake of 
argument we must put that part of the question aside — your 
husband, we shall say, has cause of complaint against you. 
He has ceased to consider you a fit guardian for his daughter 
after the first unconsciousness of childhood. What ought to 
be his method of proceeding in such a case ? Why, clearly 
this. He should advertise you, through your solicitor, of his 
desire, and allow him to negotiate between you. Had he 
done so, my advice no doubt would have been of some ser- 
vice. I should have suggested that Miss Laura should be 
placed, for the time being, in some educational establishment 
where both parents could have had access to her, even, if Mr. 
Grey had insisted upon this point, under certain restriction* 
on your side." 

Mr. Robinson paused at this point as if for consideration. 
Mrs. Grey shivered slightly, and drew her shawl more closely 
round her shoulders. It was a beautiful July day. The sun 
was shining brightly, the birds were singing, there was the 
warm breath of summer upon everything, but Margaret was 
like one stricken with a chill. Her face was pale and hag- 
gard, her dark mournful eyes were sunken, her long white 



MR. ROBINSON PROMISES TO DO HIS BEST. 151 

fingers, almost transparent, twitched nervously from time to 
time. 

" But Mr. Grey has not acted in this way," she said with 
some fretfulness in her tone. 

" Patience, my dear lady," he answered in the lively man- 
ner with which he had entered upon the subject ; " we are 
coming to that point presently. Affliction, you know, cometh 
not forth of the dust. Job suffered grievously, but held fast 
his integrity. In this world tribulation ; your trials are sent ; 
you must ask for the grace of patience, that you may be en- 
abled to bear them worthily. But to return. The first point 
we should consider is this : Who was actually the person that 
removed your daughter from your care ? the second. How and 
in what method was such removal accomplished ? In this 
you must help me. Will you try and make a concise state- 
ment of the events of the day in question — what your occu- 
pations were, how your child came to be alone — giving me 
also the grounds of your suspicion that Mr. Grey is a party 
to the kidnapping of his child? — Rather amusing, by the 
bye, when one comes to think of it — a father running away 
with his own daughter." Mr. Robinson laughed pleasantly 
at his own joke, which did not seem to impress his companion 
so agreeably. 

Margaret rose from her chair impatiently, rang the bell and 
walked to the door of the room : " I shall send you the ser- 
vant, Mr. Robinson ; she was the only person in the house 
when my daughter was taken away." 

She went out into the garden and stood under the trees. 
The sun was falling on her hair, the soft wind swept it back 
from her brow, but her pale lips quivered, and from her eyes 
came no responsive gladness to meet the beauty of the sum- 
mer morning. She was wondering why she had sent for this 
man, why she had laid bare her bleeding heart. Would it 
not have been better, a thousand times better, to have hidden 
this last anguish as she had hidden the others — to have suf- 
fered and wept in silence ? For the lawyer's keen criticism 
and unsparing common sense had been like a kind of analysis 
of her torture — had added to her sorrow the agony of unde- 
served humiliation. Her husband had insulted her. This 
was the bitterest drop in her cup of anguish, and this Mr. 



152 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Robinson, a representative of the world, which is given to 
harsh judgment of the weak, had not failed to bring clearly 
before her mind. It was bitterly hard to be borne. 

She thought, and bowed her head upon her breast with a 
sigh that seemed to drain the life-blood from her heart How 
was it that everything grated upon her, wounded her ? What 
had she expected, then? she asked herself. That this man, a 
man of business, with interests and affections of his own, 
would enter tenderly and religiously into the sanctuary of 
her grief, would touch her wound lightly, would bring help 
without adding suffering? Was it not folly, madness ? But 
she would cast this morbid sentimentality aside ; Heaven 
would grant her in time the hardness she needed. 

She sat down on a seat under the tree. She could see 
through the parlor-window that Jane was taking full advan- 
tage of her position. She was interviewing the lawyer to 
some effect, talking volubly and illustrating her statement 
with expressive gestures. 

Margaret could not help smiling faintly. As a calmer 
mood returned she felt she had put herself in a somewhat 
ridiculous position. She returned to the house, breaking in 
upon a florid account of Jane's terror on the night following 
Laura's disappearance. " That's quite enough, Jane," she 
said, some of her old dignity in her voice and manner ; " you 
may go down stairs now." 

The landlady by no means approved of the interruption. 
She had been giving the lawyer her statement, in keen and 
hungry expectation of his. He would probably, she thought, 
unfold to her some of the mysteries that had been perplexing 
her, and now she was summarily dismissed. 

There was some malignity in the glance she cast upon her 
mistress, but Margaret was too much engrossed in the busi- 
ness upon which she was bent to take the slightest notice of 
her. Jane retired — as far as the next room, that is to say, 
hoping some fragments of the conversation would reach her. 

She was disappointed. Mrs. Grey opened the French 
window and led her solicitor into the garden. 

" That's a most sensible woman," Mr. Robinson said when 
they had seated themselves outside ; " she has a good head 
and evidently a good heart; her feeling for you is quite 



MR. ROBINSON PROMISES TO DO HIS BEST. 153 

remarkable. You see, Mrs. Grey, the goodness of Provi- 
dence ? — friends raised up for the friendless. We are all apt 
to overlook our mercies and over-estimate our trials. You 
don't agree? Ah! one day I trust you will come round to 
my opinion. But to business. Will you be kind enough to 
tell me what you wish me to do in this matter ?" 

"I thought I had explained it already, Mr. Robinson." 
Mrs. Grey looked tired and spoke with a certain languor. 
" I do not wish to dispute my husband's will. If it is his 
desire to remove my daughter from my care altogether, I 
submit. I wish simply to communicate with him on my own 
account, and for this reason I want you to find out his ad- 
dress for me. It cannot surely be a very difficult matter. 
These affairs, I know, are sometimes expensive. I desire 
that no expense shall be spared. Let any capital I may 
still possess be sold out and used. I believe I have this 
power. I have some jewelry too ; I had wished to keep it, 
but that desire has gone entirely." She drew off two or 
three rings, one of diamonds and emeralds apparently very 
valuable, and placed a casket in his hands, saying as she did 
80, " Do what is to be done as quickly as possible ; there is 
no time to lose." Her cheek flushed painfully, and she 
pressed her hand to her side. 

Mr. Robinson had taken the jewelry with some empresse- 
ment. He looked at it curiously: "I shall have these 
trifles valued on my return, Mrs. Grey. We shall hope to 
have no occasion for the use of them. Of course these in- 
quiries, especially when time is a matter of such moment, 
cost something, and capital can scarcely be realized at so 
short a notice. However, set your mind at rest : everything 
that lies in human power to accomplish shall be done ; the 
result we must leave to higher hands than ours. And, by 
the bye, as we are on the subject of business, you will be 
glad to hear that your debtor the mortgagee — you will re- 
membei if you cast your mind back to our last interview — 
is completely in my power. I shall certainly realize the 
greater part of the sum lent. Do you follow me, Mrs. Grey ?" 
for Margaret's attention seemed to flag. She bad forgotten 
the mortgage, the debt, the threatened poverty, for her whole 
force of mind was centred on the one anxiety — to find out 



154 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

her husband, to appeal to his memories of the past, to p(.r- 
suade him at least to see her ; and that fainting-fit with the 
succeeding weakness had frightened her, making her feel 
that possibly her time on earth might be short. 

"Yes," she said absently; "but, Mr. Robinson, tell me 
how soon you will be likely to hear of Mr. Grey ?" 

" Impossible to say accurately, my dear lady, and it is 
quite against my principles to encourage false hope. If I 
were a doctor, I should frankly tell my patients of their 
danger, relying on a higher power than mine to temper the 
■wind and prepare the mind of my patient for the shDck, 
though, indeed, if we all lived in a state of preparation, the 
approach of death would be little or no shock — shuffling off 
the mortal coil, going home. But to return : I was saying, I 
think, that I make it a rule never to encourage false hopes. 
I have lost clients by it, Mrs. Grey ; you would really be 
amazed at the pertinacity of some folks. It is in this way: 
A man comes to me. ' Shall I succeed if I .go to law in this 
matter?' he asks. If hopeless, I answer candidly, No. 
Sometimes my client will insist upon my taking up the 
business. If not against the dictum of my conscience — an 
article, by the bye, which we lawyers are not supposed to 
possess — I submit and do my best, leaving the result. Some- 
times he will go off to a more unscrupulous practitioner. It 
matters very little. "What, after all, is so much worth hav- 
ing as the answer of a good conscience ?" 

Mrs. Grey sighed. This torrent of words wearied her 
beyond measure. "You have not answered my question, 
Mr. Robinson," she said ; " under favorable circumstances 
how long would such an inquiry take ?" 

"And who is to guarantee us favorable circumstances?" 
replied the lawyer, smiling pleasantly. "My dear lady, I 
must beg you to be patient. We may fail absolutely. Mind 
you, I do not mean to assert that I apprehend we shall fail. 
Come ! a promise. As soon as ever I receive intelligence of 
any kind I will transmit it to you by telegraph. Will that 
satisfy you ?" 

" I suppose it should" she replied sadly, but there was a 
feeling of dissatisfaction at her heart that belied her words. 



MR. BOBINSON PROMISES TO DO RIS BEST. 155 

She had not quite the same confidence in Mr. Robinson as 
she had once had. 

In the light of that fever of anxiety which consumed her 
his trite commonplaces, his rapidly-given assurances looked 
hollow and vague. She felt as if another standing-point were 
being cut ruthlessly from under her feet, and yet what could 
she do ? She had no friend, no hope in the wide world, but 
this man. 

She looked up at him, fixing on his rather hard face her 
mournful eyes, in which unshed tears were swimming. " Mr. 
Robinson," she said, "you are a Christian man. I can trust 
you ; you will do your very best for me." 

He answered by a frank smile and a cordial hand-grip: 
" You are a little upset, Mrs. Grey, or I should be apt to re- 
sent the want of confidence which those words imply. Of 
course you can rely on me. Now good-bye : I must be off to 
my wife. I left her at the hotel here, close at hand. She 
came along with me merely for the trip, and is particularly 
anxious for a drive before her return ; but duty first, pleasure 
afterward, I told her." 

" Good-bye," said Mrs. Grey. 

She was reassured once more, ready to blame herself for the 
momentary distrust. 

Mr. Robinson went away with a light swinging step and a 
cheerful smile. He was no villain, at least in his own eyes, 
for his small villainies were disguised under such pleasing 
names that he really thought himself a very good man. 

" Poor woman !" he said to himself as he walked along, 
" what an absurd notion ! She'll never find that husband of 
hers ; and if she did, where would be the use ?" 

And all this meant, "I shall take no particular pains to 
find him, and certainly not yet ; it might be awkward." 

Thought is strange in its working. There is the surface 
action, employed on that which holds it for the moment — the 
book, the work, the occupation; that which flows under, 
memoiy of what has just passed, planning for something in 
the new future ; and often, beneath both these, a deeper 
undercurrent, its existence scarcely acknowledged even to the 
mind itself 

It was in this undercurrent that James Robinson hid 



156 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

thoughts which would not bear the light, and thus to the 
world, to his family, and even to himself, he continued to be 
an upright and strictly honorable man. 

It was a dangerous game. Thought has a volcanic tend- 
ency. It is apt to force its way upward, to cleave suddenly 
the superincumbent strata that holds it from the surface. 

Many such a man as James Robinson, quiet, respectable 
and respected, even to all appearance devout, has been as- 
tonished by waking up some fine morning and finding himself 
a villain. 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE TWO FRIENDS. 

Friend of my heart ! away with care, 
And sing and dance and laugh. 

On the day succeeding that of the interview between Mar- 
garet and her solicitor, Arthur Forrest was preparing in his 
chambers for a short absence from town. The memorable 
conversation with his cousin had taken place on the previous 
afternoon. Since then he had made all needful arrangements, 
and was to start by the afternoon mail for York. He was 
busy about his room, his portmanteau open before him, pick- 
ing out the few necessaries he would require. 

He looked rather difierent from the moonstruck individual 
who had so sorely tried his good little cousin's patience only 
a few hours before, for determination and action have a cer- 
tain power. They can brace the nerves and give courage to 
the spirit. There was fresh, buoyant life in young Arthur's 
face ; there was light in his eyes ; there was healthy activity 
in his movements. 

He was whistling lightly over his task and the pleasing 
meditations induced, when he was interrupted by a knock at 
the door. The knock was followed by the appearance on the 
threshold of a young man probably of about his own age, 
only that the pallor of his face and a general delicacy of ap- 
pearance made him seem younger. 

Arth jr leapt over the portmanteau, upset in his transit two 
or three chairs laden with linen and clothing of various kinds, 



THE TWO FRIENDS. 157 

and grasping the new-comer warmly by the hand drew him 
into the room : 

" Why, Mac, old boy ! who would have thought of seeing 
you, and in the middle of the day, too ? Has your old tyrant 
played the truant, or have discipline and responsibility run 
wild in his establishment ?" 

The young man laughed : " Neither. But the fact is this 
— I have grown tired of my master at last ; and yesterday — 
or the day before it must have been — I told him a few whole- 
some truths and turned my back on the firm, leaving my last 
few pounds of salary in his hands as a parting gift." 

Arthur had been gathering some of his shirts together. 
He dropped them suddenly and gave a rapturous bound: 
" At last ! You don't surely mean to say so ? All my pro- 
phecies come true. Bravo, old fellow ! I congratulate you 
heartily. But come, I am all impatience. I must have a 
full, true and particular account of the whole. What was 
the last drop ? How did you resent its introduction ? For, 
upon my word, Mac, you took him so patiently that I began 
,to fear your old spirit had gone. I longed at times to show 
all those mufis in that confounded hole of an ofiice what you 
could do when the blood was up. But why don't you say 
something ?" 

" Because, old fellow, you won't let a man get in a word 
edgeways. And then, you see, my memory's short. I was 
•never good at learning by heart, especially my own efforts at 
composition. He spoke insultingly when I asked him to keep 
his word to my mother and give me my articles. In reply I 
let him know, in good strong English, what I thought of him 
generally and of his present conduct in particular. Finally, 
I left his place in a fine rage, I can assure you. I imagine 
Ivobinson was ditto, but his after-thoughts he didn't reveal. 
There ! will that satisfy you ?" 

Arthur gave a long whistle : " Spoke insultingly, did he ? 
I wonder who that fellow thinks himself? Well, I needn't 
enter into particulars ; you're well aware of my sentiments. 
And now, old man, what's to be the next step ?" 

" Perplexing," replied young McArthur, knitting his brows. 
" There's your man of business — Golding. You heard of the 
kind offer he made me the other day. I was scarcely, as I 



158 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SXOW. 

thought, in a position to accept it. I wish to Goodness I had, 
though; my cutting remarks would have haddou^'e force. 
By the bye, Arthur, that was prompted by you, 1 raagine. 
Do you think he would renew it ?" 

" Not the faintest doubt in the world. Golding is an excel- 
lent old fellow, and honester, I sincerely believe, than the 
ordinary race of lawyers. Then, don't you see, it would 
scarcely suit his book to break with me just now. I shall be 
of age in a few weeks, and he takes a fatherly interest in my 
affairs. Joking apart, though, I believe he does. It's a bet- 
ter firm altogether than Robinson's. But come, I was just 
oflP to lunch. Take a little something with me and we can talk 
it over by the way. Then, if you like, I shall have time to 
go with you as far as Golding's. I know your mind will be 
easier when this matter is settled. Now, don't be a humbug. 
I can see in your face that you have not lunched, and for 
once in the way you are, like myself, an idle man." 

McArthur smiled, and pointed to the chairs and table. 

" But what about all this ? Do you intend to leave it so ? 
And — you're off somewhere ?" 

" Only to York on a little matter of business," replied Ar- 
thur, who had turned to the mirror, and was occupying him- 
self in imparting a certain air of fascination to the set of his 
budding moustache. "I must get the old woman here — a 
motherly body in her way, and useful when a fellow can get 
out of reach of her tongue — to finish for me. Yes, that's 
decidedly the best plan. Come along, Mac ! If my coming 
of age is worthy of being made a festival, certainly your 
breaking loose from that rascal — whose whining is enough to 
sicken the healthiest person — is trebly so. We must have a 
bottle of champagne and a general jollification on the strength 
of it ; then we can go to Golding's together, and after that I 
shall still have time to catch the afternoon mail." 

" I didn't know you had friends in York.'' 

•• Did I say 1 had friends there ?" 

" No, but what can your business be ? I always thought it 
consisted in carrying out and\)ringing to a successful end a 
rather laborious system of amusement." 

" Come, Mac, don't be severe. I'm turning over a new 
leaf, and am fast becoming a most useful member of society 



THE TWO FRIENDS. 159 

I have already two pictures, a score of elaborate novels, a 
series of scientific works and books of travel innumerable in 
my eye." 

" ka, your own perfoririance or your neighbor's ?" 

" My own, of course. Do you mean to be insulting, Mac, 
or have you fallen so low as to imagine a solicitor's office the 
only path to fame ? But don't apologize, old fellow ; I for- 
give you in consideration of a certain derangement of brain, 
the result, no doubt, of your late experiences." 

" What have you been doing to yourself, Forrest ?" The 
young man looked at his friend with some curiosity. Ar- 
thur's face was flushed and his eyes were beaming with excite- 
ment. " Your spirits have been at rather a low ebb whenever 
I have had the opportunity of seeing you lately ; now they 
are perfectly exuberant. I think there must be something 
more in this visit to York than is quite apparent to the casual 
observer. Blushing, too ! Why, old fellow, I thought your 
blushing days were over long ago, like mine." 

Arthur turned away in some impatience : " Don't be absurd, 
Mac, or I shall certainly be cross, and at present I feel gener- 
ally genial — sympathetic, as I shall remark in my first novel, 
with the sweet influences of the balmy breezes. By the bye, 
that would be rather neat, wouldn't it?" 

" Uncommonly. You're improving, old fellow. Heigh-ho ! 
my sentimental days are gone by. Nothing like office-life for 
rubbing ofi'that kind of bloom. Do you remember the girls' 
school, and my deep indignation when you would insist upon 
singing about ' the merry little maiden of sweet sixteen ' ? " 

" An awfully good soug, by the bye," put in Arthur. 

His friend did not notice the interruption. " I am not so 
sure, after all," he said thoughtfully, " that hard work is not 
the best thing at our age. Everybody could not pass as you 
have done through the temptations of an idle youth." 

Ai thur laughed, but he looked at his companion affection- 
ately : " Come, come, Mac, that kind of thing won't quite fit 
in, you know — philosophy and compliment in one breath. 
But here we are. Now, if you're not hungry I am ; so a 
truce to reflections. They shall come, if you still feel anxious 
for them, in the shape of dessert." 

The young men sat down to dinner together^ and Arthur 



160 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

toot care it should be a particularly good one. He and Mc- 
Arthur had been chums at Eton, and although the very dif- 
ferent circumstances of their after-life had necessarily thrown 
them apart, they had still kept up their friendship in a cer- 
tain spasmodic way. 

It had been broken at times by a slight want of consider- 
ation on the one side, and a certain pride, the growth of pov- 
erty, on the other ; but real mutual affection and respect had 
been strong enough to heal the different little breaks, and the 
young men had reached the point of understanding each 
other, and of making mutual allowance for the weaknesses 
engendered by circumstances. 

They did not often meet, for their lives were very differ- 
ently spent, and McArthur was wise enough to know that for 
him to enter at all into his friend's pursuits or to frequent his 
circle would be sheer folly. This it was that occasionally 
hurt and fretted Arthur. But a meeting such as that of this 
day was a source of real pleasure to both. 

During the short hour everything life held of weariness 
and discontent was forgotten. They rattled on as if they had 
been still school-boys, with no present care to oppress their 
lives and a brilliant future before them. 



CHAPTER Vni. 

THE INDIAN SCARF. 

A man in love sees wonders. 

A FEW hours later, and Arthur Forrest was lodged for the 
night in an hotel which looked out upon one of the quaint, 
old-fashioned streets in the ancient city of York. 

The journey had by no means diminished his excitement. 
He was literally aflame with the fever of anxiety and sus- 
pense that consumed him, for this was his first young dream, 
and it mastered him with an absoluteness which only that 
first in the series that often diversifies the adolescence of 
humanity, male and feiiale, can possess. 

Afterward we know what to expect; then everything is 



TBE INDIAN SCARF. 161 

new, wonderful, incomprehensible — the sweet walcing up to a 
heavenly mysteiy. And it comes generally at a time when 
life is at its fullest; when imagination, passion, sentiment 
reign in the soul with undisputed sway ; when the heart is 
uncontaminated — at least partially so — by the influences 
which those to whom youth's Eden is a forgotten land delight 
to throw round the inexperienced, giving them lessons, they 
would say, in the great art of living — lessons, alas ! which the 
young are only too ready to receive and put into practice. 

Arthur was in this first ecstatic stage. No doubt to the 
experienced onlooker it might appear highly ridiculous ; to 
himself it was intensely real. His very existence seemed to 
have changed in the dazzling glamour that the treacherous 
little god had east over his vision. He saw all his past, his 
present, his future in relation to this one thing — his chances 
of success with the fair Margaret. 

It was late when he reached York — too late for him to 
think of going farther that night. 

He ordered a private sitting-room, for no particular reason 
but the necessity he felt for quiet meditation, that he might 
unravel the tormenting problems of the how, the why and 
the wherefore which, in spite of Ad^le's encouraging assur- 
ance, had begun to embarrass him sorely. How should he 
present himself to Mrs. Grey ? What could he give as a rea- 
son for having left London to seek her out ? In what light 
would she look upon his intrusion? These thoughts per- 
plexed him as far into the night he paced the floor of his 
sitting-room, resting himself by the continual movement, but 
sorely interfering with the rest of the gentleman who occu- 
pied the room below his. He had taken many turns up and 
down before any light had dawned upon his mind, and in 
final despair he was about* to retire to his bedroom and try 
the effect of darkness, when suddenly his eyes fell on some- 
thing that had hitherto escaped them. It was an Indian 
scarf of great brilliancy which had been left lying on a small 
low chair in one of the corners of the room. 

It brought a certain memory to Arthur's mind. He took 

it up, handling it with reverential tenderness. Where had 

he seen it before? Why did the sight of it affect him so 

strangely? He looked at it, he touched it; hi laid it down 

11 



102 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

and retiring to some distance examined it again. Then by 
degrees the sough t-for link returned. The pictures, the crim- 
son-covered seat, the pale woman, her shabby dress, and in 
striking contrast with it, the costly fabric on her shoulders. 
It was a coincidence, he said to himself — a very strange one 
— that here, when he was seeking Margaret, he should find 
the fac-simile of what she had worn on the occasion of their 
first meeting. Could it be the same — hers, left behind her? 
If 60, here was an opening thrown by kind Fate into his 
lap* 

The silken scarf should be his excuse ; with it he would 
present himself to Mrs. Grey. It was valuable in itself, and 
Bhe had evidently had some other reason besides its intrinsic 
worth for prizing it. She would be grateful for its preserva- 
tion, and the bearer of her treasure would have a certain 
claim on her consideration. 

Arthur determined to discover the history of the scarf on 
the next day, and if he should find it at all fit in with his 
ideas to take it back to its owner in triumph. For that 
night it was too late to do anything. He looked despairingly 
at the little French clock over the chimney-piece. It was 
two o'clock A.M., and an absolute silence reigned in the 
house. 

But he possessed the sanguine nature of youth. He could 
not doubt that he had found a solution to the problem which 
had been agitating his mind. His anxieties being thus par- 
tially set at rest, he began to feel tired. With the silk scarf 
close to his hand he fell asleep ; its colors mingled in con- 
fusion inextricable with all his dreams ; it was the first object 
that met his gaze on the following morning. 

He felt inclined to ring at once and make inquiries, but 
on second thought he decided that to take such a step would 
scarcely be wise. Young men in Arthur Forrest's position 
are keenly susceptible to ridicule. Undue anxiety might 
pcssibly seem suspicious. He controlled himself so far as 
to dress, to walk into his sitting-room, and to restore the 
scarf to the place it had occupied on the previous evening ; 
then he rang for breakfast. 

While the waiter was busy about the table he looked 
across the room as though for the first time the appearance 



THE INDIAN SCARF. 163 

of the scarf had struck him ; then he took it up and ex- 
amined it with apparent curiosity. 

The waiter noticed his movement. "Ah! sir," he said 
briskly, " queer thing that." 

" This scarf?" said Arthur carelessly ; " it's certainly a 
very handsome one." 

" I didn't mean the scarf, sir, but the tale, as one may say, 
that hangs on to it. It was left in this very room, identical, 
some four or five days ago, it may be, and I was the waiter 
as attended on the gentleman and little girl : a pretty crea- 
ture she was too, with — " 

" A gentleman and little girl ?" broke in Arthur, forgetful 
of his prudence in his astonishment. 

" Yes, sir ; a gentleman not young, as one might say, to 
be the father of the little lady ; and a lady she was, every 
inch of her, so pretty and well-behaved. It's my belief" — 
here the waiter lowered his voice and looked confidential 
— " there was somethink there over and above what met the 
eye, as one might say, sir." Then he disappeared to fetch 
the tea-pot. 

Arthur was strangely interested in the little tale. " Stop," 
he said as the waiter was about to leave the room again; 
" what makes you think there was something mysterious 
about these people ?" 

The waiter smiled pleasantly. His loquaciousness was 
natural to him, but it had so often received rude checks that 
he had long ago been taught to control it. "It interests 
you, do it, sir?" he said cheerfully. "Well, now, to speak 
confidential, it's my belief as that gentleman wasn't father at 
all to that there little lady. She cried considerable that 
first night, for the chambermaid had been given somethink 
a little extra by the gentleman when he came into the hotel 
that every care might be taken of the little lady. And it 
was all on and off, so she says, the little lady a-crying and 
a-sobbing, and ' Oh, my mamma ! I want my mamma ; take 
me home.' Not much sleep had the little lady, or Jane 
either, for the matter of that. She has an uncommon soft 
heart, has Jane, and the little lady's sobs, she says, would 
have melted a heart of stone, let alone hers. Well, sir, as I 
was a-saying, it looked queer ; but next morning the gentle* 



164 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

man — He was a fine man, sir, he was, but had a look with 
him as if from foreign parts, which, as one may say, looked 
queer again, the little lady being very fair, with hair the 
color of that there frame, sir, all in curls over her face, and 
the loveliest complexion you ever see. What was I a-telling 
you of? Oh! The next morning the gentleman, he or- 
dered breakfast, and he and the little lady had it in this very 
room as it might be now, sir, and certainly it wasn't no 
later, I being the waiter, Jane coming in now and again to 
see if little missy wanted for anythink. Seemed to us, Jane 
and me, that the gentleman said somethink in private, as it 
might be, to the little lady, for they seemed more friendlier- 
like, and after a bit little missy she write a letter and she look 
a deal cheerfuler, as one might say. The poor little dear 
hadn't so much — not as a change with her, sir." Again the 
waiter lowered his voice : " Looked queer, it did, and so says 
Jane to me in that very passage out there. Strange to tell, 
sir, the words is scarcely so much as out of our mouths before 
the bell rings violent-like, and Jane is sent out by that there 
gentleman, twenty pounds in her hand, and cart blank to get 
everythink ready made, and expense no object, as might be 
thought necessary for a young lady. It didn't take her long, 
I can answer for that. She come back with the things packed 
in a small portmanter, and her accounts made out all proper 
and business-like. It's Jane all over, sir. She do like to 
have everythink square and correct. ' But,' says the gentle- 
man as grand as you please, ' I didn't want no accounts, and 
divide the change between yourself and the gar9ong ;' by 
which he meant me, sir. It's the French way. They started 
that morning, and the little lady tell Jane, ' I shall come back 
very soon, I shall,' and then she puts her arms round her 
neck, ' Thank you,' she says in such a pretty way that Jane 
was quite upset like. And when she and the gentleman's 
gone there's this kind of shawl, as you have just remarked 
upon^ sir, a-lying here in this room, and here it's been ever 
since. That's the story, sir, and I think you'll agree with me 
that it looks queer." 

" It ia strange," said Arthur very thoughtfully, " I can't 
understand it at all. Do you know," he continued, turning to 
the waiter, "I am almost sure I know the owner of this scar£ 



THE INDIAN SCARF. 165 

It if, 1 s-e, a thing of some value, but if the proprietor of the 
hotel will put it in ray charge for a time, I will leave a do- 
posit to any amount he may think fit in its place, and restore 
it to him faithfully if I should prove to have been mistaken." 

" I can't see for myself as how he can make any objection, 
sir; however, with your permission I must leave you now— ■ 
there's my bell." 

The waiter did not stay away longer than he could possibly 
help. Arthur's interest in the scarf seemed to him a new 
link in the story which had so powerfully excited the curios- 
ity of various members of the establishment. On his return 
he found the young man still holding the scarf in his hand, 
with a thoughtful look on his face. But his patient recep- 
tivity of the waiter's good-humored chat seemed to have 
passed. " I wish to speak to the proprietor of the hotel," he 
said shortly. 

" At once, sir ?" asked the man in a disappointed tone. He 
was full to the brim of fresh particulars, hastily set in order 
during his journey from one break fast- table to another. 

" As soon as possible," was the reply, " I must leave York 
by an early train." 

For Arthur Forrest could scarcely control his impatience. 
The waiter's dramatic little tale had awakened his interest. 
Tie had a kind of fancy that it was connected in some way 
with Margaret. 

The proprietor found him pacing the room excitedly. He 
was politely surprised at the interest taken by the young gen- 
tleman in this small item of property left in his house, agreed 
with him that it was an article of some value, but refused to 
receive any deposit in exchange for it, with the exception of 
the young gentleman's card, and his assurance that they 
should hear whether or no the owner bad been found, and 
finally presented his little bill, swollen in various items to fit 
in reasonably with the importance the young gentleman ap- 
peared to attach to the discovery be had made in the estab- 
lishment. The landlord might have asked for double the 
amount ; Arthur would have been perfectly unconscious. He 
was only anxious to get away with his treasure — to unearth 
the mystery it seemed to hide. 

In all haste he sent for the friendly waiter, pressed half a 



166 CHASTE AS IGE, PURE AS SNOW. 

sovereign into hi^ willing tand, urging him to order a fly and 
get liis traps together without delay. 

In an incredibly short space of time the lumbering vehicle, 
as light as any that could be found in the ancient city, was 
bearing him through the narrow streets and overhanging 
gates tc the station — a fresh stage on his journey to her. 



CHAPTER IX. 

ARTHUR ARRIVES AT MIDDLETHORPE. 

Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not 
More grief than ye can weep for, 

Margaret Grey was sitting in her garden. It was a 
warm day. A faint haze, born of the vapor, paled the deep 
blue of the sky ; not a breath of wind stirred the languid 
foliage of the trees ; the flowers were bathed in light and 
color ; through a gap in the trees came the glimmer of the 
sea, and faintly on the still air rose the murmur of lulling 
waves — scarcely waves, perhaps only movement, stir, the 
manifestation of ocean's ceaseless life. It was a day to re- 
joice in — a day when the pulses quicken and the heart is 
glad with unconscious, unreasoning gladness ; when lovers 
look into one another's eyes and creep more closely together ; 
when children laugh and sing, and even the dumb creatures 
seem to rejoice in being. 

In her fav.e was no sense of gladness. She sat under the 
trees, a book in her hand, a shawl wrapt closely round her 
shoulders. 

Every particle of color had left her face, even her lipa 
were pale. The golden coronal of hair with which Nature 
had endowed her seemed to throw a ghastly shade over her 
face. It looked unnatural, like the glory of youth when its 
life and gladness have gone by. Only her eyes retained their 
beauty, for through their mournful wistfulness, their some- 
times wild eagerness, the beautiful soul still shone, and in the 
wreck of hope, of beauty, of life itself, that soul was learn- 
ing, slowly and painfully, it i« true, but learning still, the 



ARTHUR ARRIVES AT MIDDLETHORPE. 167 

lesson that, consciously or unconsciously, all must learn, — . 
submission to the Supreme Will first and above all ; not tha 
mild sentimental " Thy will be done " of which hymnisty and 
sermon-coiners discourse so glibly, nor even that " grace of 
patience" which her solicitor had recommended her to seek 
as a panacea for all her ills, but a something far above and 
beyond these — a something that, perhaps, only those who 
have suffered keenly can ever know — the laying down of self- 
will altogether, the recognition, through sorrows and contra-^ 
dictions manifold, of a Divine Love 

"Shaping the ends of life." 

A book was in Margaret's hand, but she did not often look 
at it, at least not for long. There seemed to be a disturbing 
cause at work that prevented her from fixing her attention on 
anything but the absorbing anxiety which held her. 

It was toward the afternoon of the long day, and she had 
been sitting there since early morning waiting and watching. 
From time to time she would take out her watch and consult 
it, and once she pressed her hand to her side, murmuring, 
" Patience, patience ! My God, shall I ever learn it ?" 

And the song-birds flitted backward and forward over her 
head, and the sea smiled and the earth rejoiced. There was 
no answer to the cry of the lonely heart. Patience; yes, 
patience, poor stricken one ! for " when night is darkest, then 
dawn is near." I wonder who thinks of it when the black 
darkness is closing around them ? Certainly Margaret did 
not. 

She was sitting in the back part of the little garden ; from 
her position she could hear the door-bell and the click of the 
latch of the front gate, but she could not see those who came 
in or went out, and through that long day there had been no 
sound of outside life to break in upon her solitude. It had 
begun to sicken her as she sat under the trees looking out 
upon the sunshine. 

There was a sound at last — the stopping of wheels at the 
garden-gate, the latch pushed back with something of impa- 
tience, a ring at the door-bell that echoed through the house. 

Margaret leapt to her feet and tried to rush forward. It 



168 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

was surely that for which she had been looking — a telegram 
to tell her something had been done. He had promised to 
use all possible despatch. 

Alas, poor Margaret! The "he" in question was at that 
moment exciting himself very little about her or her concerns. 
He was not very far from her. He could have been seen bj 
any who had chosen to take the trouble of looking for him 
seated on a strong little black pony, jogging along with gn at 
contentment — a conspicuous object on the yellow sands. 

In moments of strong excitement physical power sometimes 
abandons us : perhaps it is that the spirit would master the 
body, and forgetting its bonds rush forward alone to meet the 
coming fate, and that then the weakness of its natural home 
draws it back to its humanity. 

It was something like this Margaret experienced. She 
rose, she would have pressed forward. In an incredibly 
short time she would have had the message in her hands, 
but her limbs refused to bear her. She sank back on the 
garden-seat, compelled, whether she would or no, to wait — 
to wait. 

The delay was not long, but it seemed to her as if the 
moments were ages, each laden with an agony of suspense, 
while she sat still in her forced inaction. 

Jane crossed the lawn at last with something in her hand, 
and Margaret covered her face and moaned faintly. If this 
should be disappointment, how could she bear it? It was 
disappointment. The message turned out to be a card which 
Jane put into her hands, explaining as she did so that the 
young gentleman had come on important business, and wished 
particularly to see her, if only for a few moments. 

" A young gentleman — important business," said Margaret 
faintly ; " then it is not a telegram ?" 

" Who said it were ?" asked Jane rather rudely. She knew 
very well that speak as she might her mistress would take 
very little notice of her now. " I said a young gentleman 
was in the parlor," she continued in a higher key, as if Mar- 
garet had been deaf, " and I've too much to do to be wasting 
my time argufying. Everybody can't set doing nothing all 
day like some folk I could tell of. Are you going to see him 
or are you not ?" 



ARTHUR ARRIVES AT MIDDLETHORPE. 169 

" I will see him," replied Margaret quietly. " Ask him to 
wait a few minutes." 

She had wondered only a moment before how she could 
bear the disappointment. It came, and she neither fainted 
nor wept, only there fell a chiller shadow over her heart — - 
the darkness of her lot on earth seemed to deepen. 

She watched with eyes from which all the light had gone 
out until Jane had re-entered the house, then she rose again, 
and this time no ultra-impetuousness delayed her. The name 
on the card puzzled her. She had a vague notion she had 
seen it somewhere before, but in her trouble her London re- 
membrances were partially swamped. She scarcely knew 
even why she had decided to grant this young man an inter- 
view. She was only obeying a secret impulse : he might pos- 
sibly be the bearer of a message. 

She had not thought at the moment she left her seat that 
the parlor-window looked out upon the little garden ; but so 
it was, and as languidly and with apparent pain she crossed 
the lawn its temporary occupant was gazing upon her. 

Her appearance shocked him terribly. He had been in no 
way prepared for the change which that week of misery and 
loneliness had brought about. She did not look the same. 
Then, indeed, she hud been sad, but the sadness had not 
absorbed her utterly — had not written on her face the hag- 
gard, weary hopelessness which it now bore. 

The young man's heart contracted painfully ; a sudden dis- 
may seized him. He would have turned and fled. How 
could he bear to face this suffering ? In its presence he felt 
weak and helpless as a child. 

But he looked at her again, the white patient face with its 
halo of golden color, the weak languid steps, the beautiful 
outlines, the never-failing, unconscious grace, and as he looked 
the love of his heart surged in a great wave over his being. 
Unconsciously he clasped his hands, his brows knit, his form 
dilated. 

'God helping me," he said in a low impassioned voice that 
swept upward from the innermost depths of his spirit — "God 
helping me, I will help her !" 

Scarcely was the vow made before the door opened a^d 
Margaret and he were face to* face. She looked at him for a 



170 CHASTE AiS WE, PURE Als HJSOW. 

momont, then held out her hand, smiling her recognition. 
«' Sit down," she said with the quiet graciousness Arthur re- 
membered so well, taking a seat herself at the same time; 
then suddenly she caught sight of what he brought, for Ar- 
thur had the scarf on his arm. Her quietness fled, she roso 
to her feet, and seizing his arm pointed to it eagerly : " Where 
did you find it? Whose is it? Why did you bring it here?** 
She spoke and fell back on her chair, gasping for breath. 



CHAPTER X. 
ON THE BRINK OF MADNESS. 

My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love ; 
My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim. 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

Arthur's instinct had not erred. There was something 
more than the recovery of what she valued that made the 
sudden reappearance of her scarf a matter of great moment 
to Mrs. Grey. The facts of the case were these : The voice 
of many-tongued Rumor had been busy in the village with 
the wonderful history of the disappearance of the pretty 
child, whose vivacity and pleasant friendly ways had mxde 
her well known in the neighborhood. Through the medium 
of her laundress and a little girl from the National School, 
who came iu the morning to help Jane, some of these little 
bits of gossip had made their way to Margaret. 

The laundress poured into her ears the tale of how the lit- 
tle one had been met on the sands with a gentleman and a 
big dog on the afternoon of the day of her disappearance ; 
the little girl chimed in with a true, full, and particular ac- 
count of every item of the dress and appearance of both. 
One of these items puzzled Margaret. The girl declared pos- 
itively that Miss Laura had carried her mamma's scarf upon 
her arm. Now, Margaret could not but remember that on 
that ever-memorable day she had worn the scarf herself. 
She had reason for connecting it with the interview between 
herself and L' Estrange. Strangely enough, from that very 
moment she had missed it. 



ON TEE BRINK OF MADNESS. 171 

In hei first horror at tlie discovery of Laura's departure 
tKe lessei' loss had naturally escaped her ; when the girl men- 
tioned th 3 scarf, however, she remembered that she had not 
brought it home with her. But how could Laura have ob- 
tained possession of it ? Margaret wearied herself with con- 
jectures, but at last she came to this conclusion — she had left 
it on her seat among the bushes, Laura had gone there with 
her father anxious to find her, they had seen the scarf, and 
the little one had picked it up to take it back, for that Laura 
had willingly left her Margaret never imagined for a moment. 
Either this or else that the girl had been mistaken altogether. 
It was thus she had dismissed the subject of the scarf from 
her mind. It did not aflford any clue ; it did not alter in the 
remotest degree the fact of the child being lost to her, of her 
husband having cruelly and wantonly wronged her. But 
when the scarf reappeared in this strangely unexpected man- 
ner it was like a message from her child, a link by which it 
might be possible to trace her, and the first revulsion of feel- 
ing which its sight occasioned was so great as almost to de- 
prive Margaret of her small remnant of strength. 

She did not faint, though Arthur, when he saw the deadly 
pallor of her face, was about to spring to the door and call 
out for assistance. She warned him by a rapid gesture to do 
nothing of the kind. This was her first impulse ; she pointed 
then to a carafie of water. He poured some into a glass 
and brought it to her. It revived her partially. The color 
struggled back into her pale cheeks, she sat up and tried to 
smile — such a faint watery attempt at a smile that her com- 
panion could have gone on his knees, then and there, implor- 
ing her only to weep. 

" I am very foolish," she said faintly, " but since we last 
met I have suffered, and suffering has made me weak. Have 
patience with me for one moment. Give me your arm, that 
will be best ; the fresh air may revive me ; and — walls have 
ears." 

She looked round with a sudden terror in her eyes. To 
describe the effect of her words, of her weakness, on the in- 
flammable heart of the young man would be impossible. 
He was beside himself with the longing to to.ke her to V:a 
heart, to proclaim himself, once and for ever, Her prot. cicj' 



172 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

and champion. But love had taught him self-control. Trem- 
bling from head to foot, he still preserved an apparent com- 
posure. He took the hand she offered and raised it rever- 
ently to his lips, then placed it on his arm. 

" Be calm, dear lady," he said gently, " I have come here 
with this express purpose to find some way out of your trou- 
bles, and, God helping me, I will." 

The boy spoke slowly, deliberately. In his words there 
was all the fervor of a vow, all the hallowed binding power 
of a sacramental utterance ; and to her for the moment it did 
not seem unnatural. He spoke again, after a short pause : 
" Mrs. Grey, do you think you can trust me?" 

She looked up. There was a dreamy softness in her eyes 
and her voice was low : " Yes, I think I can. God knows I 
was sorely in need of a friend. But" (her voice changed, 
she looked round in a bewildered manner), " come out ; I 
cannot speak to you here. I have a kind of feeling — dear 
me ! how weak and childish I have become ! — I hear voices, 
I see faces. I fancy sometimes I am being watched." 

" You are weak and ill, Mrs. Grey ; you should not be here 
alone. Let us go out to the shore ; the sea-air will do you 
good. See ! your hat is lying here." 

She obeyed him. It almost seemed as if his voice had a 
certain power over her for the moment. He took her hand 
again and led her from the room and from the house, half 
supporting her from time to time. Neither spoke until the 
cottage was left far in the background, and then they were 
on the sands close by the sea. 

" Shall we sit down here ?" asked Arthur. 

" Yes," she said, " we are alone ; sea and sky — sea and 
sky." Then she paused with a bewildered look : " What am 
I saying ? I know I wanted to speak to you, and now every- 
thing has gone." 

This was far more bewildering to Arthur than her formei 
state, for there was a wild, appealing look about her eyes 
which made him fear for her reason ; but with the emergency 
came a certain power. It was truly a transformation. The 
boy was changed into a man. He stood up and taking l)oth 
of Margaret's hands into his own, looked steadfastly into her 
eyes. 



ON THE BRINK OF MADNESS. 173 

** Mrs. Grey," he said slowly and distinctly, " try and re- 
member what has brought you here. Your child, little 
Laura !" 

She put her hand to her head : " Laura ! Laura ! Do you 
know where she is, poor child ? The heat has tired her ; she 
must be lying down." 

Arthur trembled, but he kept his eyes still fixed on those 
of his companion, which wandered hither and thither like 
restless stars. 

" Mrs. Grey," he said again, " do you wish to find your 
child?" 

Her eyes had begun to feel the power of his ; they were 
falling under the spell of his steadfast gaze. Now was 
Arthur's time of trial, for the unmeaning wildness grew 
gradually into surprised displeasure. " Dear lady !" he said 
pleadingly, but not for a moment removing his gaze, " you 
have been patient ; be so still. Do not let your sorrow over- 
come you utterly." 

There spread a faint color over the dead whiteness ol' her 
face. The young man saw that for this time the danger had 
gone by. He had the tact to release her suddenly and to 
turn away for a walk along the shore. His true, unselfish 
love had given him eyes to see and a heart to understand. 
He knew that the return to a sense of her position would be 
painful to Margaret for more reasons than one. He left her 
to recover herself alone. Presently she called him. He 
went to her, and took his place by her side as if nothing had 
happened to disturb their conversation. 

" Thank you," she said, gently raising her dark, troubled 
eyes to his face, "I understand you — you are my true friend;" 
and then a few tears that she could not keep back flowed over 
her pale cheeks. " Oh," she said, slowly and painfully, " if 
God will I shall learn ; but, young man, it is a dreary time 
for learning. In our days of happiness and youth we put all 
this away, and the hour of trouble finds us without a refuge. 
You see I bore all the trouble," she continued, smiling 
faintly ; " it is the glimmer of hope you have brought me 
that so nearly upset my poor, weak brain. But tell me, have 
you seen my little one ?" 

In reply Arthur gave, as clearly as possible, the story given 



174 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SJs'OW. 

to him by the waiter at the hotel iu York, to all of which 
Margaret listened with rapt attention. Once or twice she 
was on the point of interrupting him, but she controlled her- 
self to the end, and there was disappointment in the heavy 
Bigh with which she answered him. " It is certainly my 
scarf," she said, taking it up and examining it attentively; 
" I could not possibly be mistaken, and as certainly that little 
child was my daughter — my lost Laura. Yes, it is all so 
probable. My little one's grief, the love of those around her, 
and her letter — it was to me — he never sent it. I am de- 
ceived, betrayed. Oh, Maurice ! Maurice !" 

Her grief seemed to overcome her. She covered her face 
with her hands, and once more, in his perplexity and distress, 
Arthur was on the point of throwing himself at her feet, of 
declaring his boundless love. 

Before he could decide she looked up again and spoke with 
apparent calm : " There are some difficulties in the story. 
Are you sure the waiter said he was old and like a foreigner?" 

" Perfectly certain ; I could not possibly be mistaken." 

"Then he must have changed wonderfully in the short 
time." 

" Forgive me for asking, Mrs. Grey, but whom do you sus- 
pect of this atrocity ? I would not be intrusive for the world ; 
I only wish to be your friend." The young man's voice 
trembled ; he went on more rapidly : " You must know, you 
must have seen, that I take no common interest in your con- 
cerns. I feel this is neither the time nor the place to force my 
own feelings upon you ; but, Margaret, when I see you alone, 
friendless, when I know it is in my power to give you every- 
thing, to devote myself to you utterly, even to bring back 
perhaps those days of happiness of which you spoke, how can 
I resist the temptation of letting you know all ? Since first I 
saw you your fair, sad face has haunted me ; I can think of 
nothing else. Ah ! I have been idle, good-for-nothing, but 
ail that has passed away. Give me hope, and I will yet make 
myself worthy of you." 

He spoke with such impetuosity that it was almost impos- 
sible to stop him. But when he paused for lack of breath, 
Margaret drew herself away, putting back gently his plead- 
ing hand. Perhaps it was well for her that this new excittv 



ON THE BRINK OF MADNESS. 175 

meivt came. It seemed to restore her strength of mind, her 
gentle, womanly dignity. " Hush !" she said quietly ; " you 
must not speak to me in this way. If you really care for me 
you will respect my lonely position, Arthur, I am married, 
and my one absorbing anxiety is to see my husband again 
beicre I die. Come, I do not mean to lose you as a friend ; 
you have shown yourself a man, and a noble man, to-day; you 
will soon overcome this weakness." 

Arthur was looking away over the sea. He was staggered 
for a moment, and yet he was not really surprised. His voice 
was a little husky as he answered, for after all he was only a 
boy, and he had taught himself to hope. " Forgive my folly 
and presumption," he said. 

She put her hand on his shoulder with the caressing gesture 
of an elder sister. " I want a friend," she said, smiling into 
his downcast face. " You shall be my brother, Arthur. I 
have never had a brother, for I was an only child, and my 
sole friend in the wide world is my solicitor. He is a man of 
position and character, and yet — do you know ? my loneliness 
makes me so sensitive — I sometimes feel inclined to distrust 
even him." 

" Can you tell me his name?" 

" It is rather a common one. Very likely you will not 
know it. Mr. Robinson — James, I think, is his Cl^ristian 
name." 

" Of the firm of Robinson and ?" 

" Yes." 

"Then, Mrs. Grey, your suspicions were only too well 
founded." He gnashed his teeth. " The old hypocrite ! I 
trust you have not given him your confidence to any great 
extent," 

Margaret turned pale : " Everything I have is in his hands. 
Only two days ago I gave him some valuable jewelry to en- 
sure the speedy carrying out of my instructions," 

" And he took it away with him, I suppose," Arthur smiled 
sardonically — " recommended patience and resignation. Ah ! 
I know him well. But forgive me ; I am allowing my feel- 
ings to run away with me and frightening you. The fact 
is that I happen to know something of your solicitor, and 
the very mention of his name excites me, Mrs. Grey, we 



176 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

must save you from him. Tell me once more, do you trust 
me?" 

Margaret looked up into his frank, open face and smiled. 
" As I would my own brother," she replied heartily ; " and in 
proof of it, if you can listen to a long, painful story, I will 
tell you my history, and how it is that you find me here in 
this little village alone and unprotected. You have given me 
the full confidence of your young, true heart; you have 
trusted in me, Arthur, in spite of much that must have 
seemed strange and mysterious. I will give you my confi- 
dence in return. But I think for to-day the exertion would 
be almost too much for me. Can you come again to-morrow, 
^r must you go away at once ?" 

" I shall not leave this place until I have found out some 
way of helping you, Mrs. Grey ; but if you really mean to 
trust me as your brother, will you let me say that I don't like 
the idea of your staying by yourself in this solitary house ? 
You want some one with you upon whom you can thoroughly 
depend. I rather distrust your landlady ; I can scarcely say 
why." They had risen from their seat on the sands, and were 
walking toward the little cottage. " As I came in," continued 
Arthur, " she entertained me — a perfect stranger, at least as 
far as she knew — with the story of your child's disappearance 
and your fainting-fit of that evening, seeming to expect me to 
give my errand in return." 

" I rather distrust her myself," replied Margaret ; " but 
one cannot always tell. Her manner certainly is unfortu- 
nate. I believe, however, that she is really a good kind of 
person, and her character stands high in the neighborhood. 
I do not like the idea of a change just now, but thank you 
all the same for the kind thought. You saw me, you must 
remember, at a weak moment ; I am not always so foolish, 
and to-night I shall have something to think about. Here 
we are at the gate. Come in and have a cup of tea. By the 
bye, where are you staying?" 

"At the hotel, Mrs. Grey; it's not very far from here. I 
think if you even called out to me from the window of your 
dining-room, I should hear you." 

Margaret smiled : " I shall have no occasion, I hope, for 
the assistance of my champion till to-morrow ; then you mus* 



THE ACCOLADE OF KNIGHTHOOD. 177 

hear my story, and help me to devise some plan for communi- 
catiiig with my husband and child." 

"You think your husband has taken the child?" said Ar- 
thur, stopping suddenly. 

"To-morrow, Arthur, to-morrow; before we discuss that 
point 1 must rest." 

CHAPTER XI. 
THE ACCOLADE OF KNIGHTHOOD. 

We live in deeds, not years ; in thoughts, not breaths ; 
In feelings, not in figures on a dial : 
We should count time by heart-throbs. 

And Margaret rested that night, for the first time since the 
evening when exhausted Nature had failed utterly and she 
had slept at the foot of her lost child's bed. There was a new 
feeling of rest and hope in her spirit ; the events of the day 
had stimulated her; there was an uprising of the dormant 
courage and energy in her nature; she began to feel that 
something might yet be done. Jane was astonished that 
evening to find some small impertinence on her part rebuked 
by her mistress with all her old dignity, and to hear that if 
matters did not mend very considerably she would run the 
chance of losing her lodger. She was slightly alarmed, not 
only on this account, but also because this sudden resurrection 
of spirit might notify a change in her lodger's circumstances ; 
but she kept her own counsel. 

Breakfast was to be prepared for two. "Strange goings 
on," muttered Jane to herself, but this time she did not dare 
to express her feelings. 

Arthur arrived early in the morning. He was excited and 
restless. With the impulsiveness of youth he had thrown 
himself heart and soul into the task that appeared to be open- 
ing out before him, and until some light had been thrown 
jpon it he could not rest. He and Margaret breakfasted 
together, but by mutual consent nothing was said about the 
subject which engrossed them both until they had again left 
the house behind them, and were able to talk quietly, withou* 
need for caution, under the broad open sky. 

12 



178 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

She seemed so quiet, so self-contained, that Arthur began 
at last to fear that she had forgotten her promise, or rather 
that it had been given impulsively and withdrawn after calmer 
thought. And something of curiosity — which, by the bye, is 
pretty highly developed in the male portion of humanity — 
mingled with the true interest he took in Margaret's concerns. 
But she had not forgotten. 

They had been sitting for a few moments by the sea-shore, 
talking of indifferent matters, when all at once she turned to 
him. " You ask me no questions," she said ; " you are not 
curious to know more about me ?" 

Arthur reddened : " Not curious, Mrs. Grey. I am ready 
to hear whatever you wish to tell me. I know it can be noth- 
ing unworthy of yourself, and pray do not imagine that I wish 
to hear anything you care to conceal or that would give you 
pain to tell. I only desire to help you to the best of my 
ability." 

For Arthur was a little hurt by the question. She smiled 
and rested her hand on his shoulder as she had done the day 
before, and her touch stirred the young man's heart to a 
strange mixture of feelings — pride, for it seemed to show that 
she depended on him, that his presence was a comfort to her, 
and yet a certain mortification. " She would not treat him 
in this way," he said to himself with somewhat of bitterness, 
" if she could understand in the slightest degree the feelings 
that had brought him to her — if she felt the remotest danger 
to her own heart in the companionship. He was a boy to 
her, nothing more." 

But Margaret spoke, and her voice had a salutary effect 
In its sweet sadness, the remnant of selfishness was rebuked. 

" Love took up the harp of life and smote on all the chords witl 
might — 
Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of 
sight." 

Thus it was with Arthur. Self trembled, but self passed. 
He was ready to do everything for the sake alone of her love- 
liness, of his love. 

" You don't seem to care to ask me questions," she saii.l 
gently, "so I suppose I must take the matter into my owij 



THE ACCOLADE OF KNIGHTHOOD. 179 

hands, and unasked let you know something of my past life. 
I feel very old, Arthur — more fit to be your mother than 
even your elder sister, as I called myself just now ; for life" 
— she looked across the sea, and her voice was low — "life 
should be reckoned not by the years, the days, the moments, 
but by the heart-pulses, the living, the battling, that the years 
and moments hold. I am not really old. I married at the 
age of nineteen, and then I had lived, I was older than my 
years ; my little one was born when I was twenty, just seven 
years ago ; that gives you my age — an easy piece of arith- 
metic. Many women are young at twenty-seven. I am old, 
old ; hush, Arthur ! you must not protest. When life has 
lost all its beauty and gladness, what can it be but dreary ? 
And dreary days pass slowly. The last eighteen months 
might have been eighteen years, and that would make me 
old, even according to your reckoning. But I do not seem to 
get on very fast with ray story. Ah ! I must go back — such 
a long way — to the time when I was a girl, with a girl's fresh- 
ness and ignorance of life, and fervent belief in herself and 
the future. I lost my parents even before that. I scarcely 
remember my mother. After her death my father left me a1 
school and took to wandering. He did not survive her very 
long. But I was not left alone to battle with life. An aunt, 
my mother's only sister, took her place with me. She, too, 
had one daughter, and my cousin and I became like sisters ; 
more than sisters — friends. She was younger than I, but she 
was everything to me. I don't think it can often be said of 
any woman that she loves another verily better than herself, 
but this was actually the case with my poor Laura. My 
loves, my accomplishments, my success were far more to her 
than her own. AYe were one, absolutely one — never a breath 
of discord between us ; and now," Margaret paused and sighed 
deeply, " she has gone, and my after-sorrows have been so 
bitter that I have not even a tear to give to the memoi'y of 
my first grief, the worst, I thought then, that I could ever en- 
counter. We had a passion for travelling — Laura and I — 
and when she was about sixteen and I seventeen my aunt, 
who was then a widow, indulged us by a six months' trip on 
the Continent. It was to be strictly educational. JMy poor 
aunt I I can hear her now talking about all we should do, 



180 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SSOW. 

the regular hours of study, the steady application. Music 
was to be taken up in Germany, singing in Italy, languages 
everywhere. She was too gentle for the management of such 
volatile young ladies as we were. Laura and I had pretty 
much our own way. It was a pleasant time. How intensely 
we enjoyed the fresh, new life, the constant variety, the en- 
largement of ideas ! Ah, if that could have been all ! But 
I must hasten on. You see," she smiled faintly, " I am like a 
shivering mortal ; afraid of the first plunge into icy waters, I 
hover about the brink." 

" If it is painful to you, say no more, Mrs. Grey," said 
Arthur earnestly ; " nothing you could possibly tell me would 
alter my feelings toward you." 

She shook her head : "It is kind of you to wish to spare 
me, but I must go on. You know you are to be my friend, 
and if you are ever to help me you must know all. Laura 
and I were admired. Young English ladies are thought 
much of abroad. And very innocently, I think, we enjoyed 
the attention we excited. One of our admirers was continu- 
ally appearing and reappearing. He seemed to find out our 
plans as if by intuition, was always on the spot when we 
wanted assistance, and on more than one occasion saved us 
much trouble and annoyance by a little timely help. A 
strange man who interested and puzzled us all, though to 
this day I fail to understand him. As far as we could make 
out, he was half Spanish, half French. Certainly he had the 
ease and grace belonging so peculiarly to Fnince, with the 
fire and enthusiasm of the Spaniard. My aunt, I imagine, 
had full confidence in him, because his hair was gray, though 
at that time he could not have been more than forty, and liis 
face was particularly plain. She could not have thought of 
his cherishing anything but friendly feelings for girls like 
Laura and me ; indeed, I always have a kind of suspicion 
that she took his manifold attentions to our party as a tribute 
of homage to herself, for my aunt was a pretty woman, and 
by no meajs old to be Laura's mother. M. L'Estrange did 
everything he could to foster this feeling. How clever he 
was! his delicate flatteries! his personal kindnesses! his as- 
siduous courtesy ! Laura and I enjoyed them often, for we 
were wiser: we knew that he thought himself neither too old 



THE ACCOLADE OF KNIGHTHOOD. 181 

nor too ugly to fascinate les demoiselles Anglaises. And we 
both fell in love with him, though in different ways. Laura 
had no scruple in speaking of her affection. He was her 
*bon p6re, her frdre aine;' she liked him better than any one 
she had ever seen ; and he in return petted and caressed her, 
brought her cakes and bon-bons, took and demanded a thou- 
sand and one little daughterly attentions, at all of which my 
good aunt smiled complacently. But she did not know what 
Laura knew — that he seized every opportunity for speaking 
to me of love. She made opportunities — my sweet little 
cousin — for in her beautiful, unselfish way she could imagine 
nothing more delightful than this love-making ending in 
marriage, her sister and her bo7i pere living together, with her 
for their little one, their 'ch^re fillette' — this last being one 
of his pet names for Laura. 

" We met in Paris, we met again in many of the Italian 
towns, and he and I corresponded. I was very young ; I 
knew nothing whatever of the world ; it seemed to me strange 
that with all his professions of devotion he never mentione(^ 
marriage ; but I believed his mode of living was precarious, 
and that as soon as something settled should be offered hira 
he would iisk me to pledge myself. This was Laura's view, 
too, for my little darling was older than her years, and she 
and I discussed the matter frequently. But at last we — or I 
should say I — found out what he was. Laura would scarcely 
believe anything against her bon pfere, but I knew that of him 
which I could not tell her. He and I parted, and were to one 
another as if we never had been even so much as friends. / 
Buffered, for though I believe now that my imagination 
rather than my heart had been touched, still he had 
formed so large a part of my life that the parting could not 
but be painful for the time. I should have told you that all 
this had filled about two years ; we had been twice in Eng- 
land, and twice again on the Continent, before I could make 
up my mind to break finally with my lover. 

" It was in the course of the winter following my second 
visit, when my heart was still aching with the kind of loneli- 
ness which the withdrawal from my life of the one who had 
made all its romance for so many months could not but cause, 
that I met my husband, Maurice Grey, There could not 



182 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

have been a greater contrast. He had the fire of the French- 
man, but he lacked his dissimulation. He was in those days 
— God only knows how this trial may have changed him ! — 
a true gentleman, frank, manly, courageous, but with none 
of the delicate finish, the courtly ease, the wily fascination of 
L'Estrange. I soon saw he loved me — so deeply that n.y re- 
fusal to become his wife would cause him the intensest pain 
And when he made me an ofier I accepted him at first only 
because I was sorry for him and tired of my solitary position ; 
but I came to love him, and with a Jar deeper, truer love than 
the former had been, for that had a certain sense of dissatis- 
faction about it. I never thoroughly understood M. L'Es- 
trange ; Maurice I honored as well as loved, and with my 
whole heart. Ah!" — she covered her face with her bauds 
and moaned — "if he could only have known ! But to re- 
turn : I told him the whole story of my former love. It did 
not affect his feelings toward me. We were married, and two, 
three years passed by happily. I don't say we had never lit- 
tle breaks. I suppose in every married life these occur ; and 
Maurice had one fault : he loved me too much — he was in- 
clined to be jealous of my affection. I think, when I look 
back over that time, that the old story rankled in his mind ; 
he could not quite shake off" the idea that my duty was his, 
my love still another's. There came a time when our little 
child took ill. It was scarlet fever, and after it was over the 
doctors recommended sea-air. This was in the height of the 
London season, and my husband could not leave town. He 
took lodgings for us in Ramsgate, and came to see us when- 
ever it was possible. 

" Now comes the strange part of my story. Up to that time 
I had neither seen Monsieur L'Estrange nor heard of him 
since my marriage. 

"Of course I thought of him sometimes, and my pooi 
Laura before she died spoke of him often with lingering 
affection. At times I had a kind of morbid curiosity about 
him. I felt as if I should like to meet him, only to know 
whether I was perfectly cured — whether in ray mature age 
he could exercise the same strange fascination over me as in 
my girlhood. This idea I never ventured to mention to 
Maurice. Would to God I had I I was walking one day on 



THE ACCOLADE OF KNTGHTHOOD. 183 

the Ramsgate pier when suddenly I saw him. My little girl 
and her nurse were with me. He recognized me instantly, 
looked at me in his curious way and lifted his hat politely. 
This chance meeting made a tumult in my brain, but I tried 
to treat it as a matter of very small importance. On the 
next day Maurice was to arrive, and here was my first false 
step. I said nothing to him of the meeting. I noticed him 
once or twice look at me strangely, as if trying to read my 
heart; but he said nothing and I said nothing. He went 
away, and on that very morning arrived a letter in the small, 
well-known handwriting. I knew it was from Jiim, and yet, 
and yet — God forgive me ! — I opened and read it. It was a 
simple matter, after all, claiming common acquaintanceship, 
asking permission to call on me. He was waiting at the 
hotel ; if I chose to forbid him he would go no further ; if he 
received no answer he would be with me in the course of the 
afternoon. I persuaded myself that this meant nothing ; we 
should meet once more — meet as strangers. I should have 
the opportunity of proving to myself how foolish ray girlish 
weakness had been. And to forbid his coming, what would 
it be but a tacit acknowledgment that he still possessed a cer- 
tain power over my heart ? I decided to allow him to come, 
and through the afternoon I sat in-doors, waiting with (I will 
always maintain) no stronger feeling than curiosity in my 
mind. It was nearly evening before he arrived. I was in 
some trepidation, but he behaved perfectly ; his manner was 
easy and natural ; he seemed to forget there had been any- 
thing but simple friendship between us. We chatted pleas- 
antly for about half an hour, and then he rose to take his 
leave. The room was in half darkness ; I had sent my little 
one to bed. I put out my hand carelessly, as I would have 
done to any ordinary stranger, but a sudden change seemed 
to have come over him. To this day I have never been able 
to account for it. He who had been so calm only a few 
moments before was trembling with excitement. He seized 
my offered hand, and before I knew where I was he was 
kneeling at my feet, pouring out words that he had no right 
to speak nor I to hear. Before I could thrust him away, 
before I could give voice to my indignation — ah ! shall I 
ever, ever forget that moment ? — the door opened slowly, an 3 



184 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

I saw my husband's face as I had never seen it before — dark, 
threatening, suspicious. It all passed in a moment. I was 
conscious of sinking down in a chair, and covering my face 
with my hands to hide my burning shame, for ray husband 
suspected me. I heard high words, and when I looked up 
again Maurice and I were alone. 

" ' That man has escaped with his life,' he said sternly ; he 
has you to thank for it.' I tried to explain, but he stopped 
me harshly. It was a stormy night. The wind was blowing 
about the house in fierce gusts. Oh how every detail of that 
terrible time clings about my brain I 

" My husband left me in the room alone. I sat there for 
it might be an hour, as darkness had come before he returned. 
When he came in a carpet-bag was in his hand ; he was evi- 
dently dressed for travelling. I sprang to my feet. I threw 
my arms around him ; I implored him to stay and listen to 
me, but he only answered with that dark suspicious look. He 
loosened my hold at last — he reached the door ; as he opened 
it there swept a great blast of wind into the room. I shall 
always feel thankful for that, for he saw me shivering as I 
lay exhausted on the sofa, and he came back suddenly to 
cover me from head to foot in his travelling-rug ; then he 
kissed me — my poor Maurice! — and I saw something like 
relenting in his sad eyes, but I was too weak to tell him all : 
the soft moment passed, and I have never seen him since." 

Margaret's voice sank into a wail. Her story had carried 
her away, so much so that she had almost forgotten her com- 
panion, and when Arthur, who had been listening intently, 
sprang suddenly to his feet, she was almost startled. 

" It is as we thought," he cried impetuously — " my cousin's 
very words ; she said it was some dreadful misunderstanding. 
But it shall be set right. Mrs. Grey, you have given me your 
confidence nobly and truly. It shall not be in vain. I have 
a kind of feeling that it will be given to me to disentangle 
this coil." 

And then he knelt down before her on the sands. " Mar- 
garet," he said — and as he spoke the name with all a boy's 
timidity his young face flushed and his eyes seemed to bum 
with a steady, lustrous shining — " long ago, in the days of 
chivalry, ladies used to send out their knights wearing their 



•'/ SHALL LIVE AND NOT DIE." 185 

colors to fight for them and for truth and for justice. Make 
me your knight, let me fight your battles. So help me God, 
I will stand by you as your own brother might do ; I will 
seek through the world till I find your husband, I will never 
rest till I have righted you ! Will you accept my service?" 

She smiled, and bending forward kissed him on the brow. 

" It is the accolade of knighthood," she said. Then they 
rose together and went toward the cottage, for the sun was 
high in the heavens. 



CHAPTER XII. 
"I SHALL LIVE AND NOT DIE." 

This world is the nurse of all we know, 

This world is tlie mother of ail we feel, 
And the coming of death is a fearful blow 

To a brain unencompassed with nerves of steel. 

They had further discussion that evening. Margaret told 
her young protector, after she had rested a little, how from 
that day she had been persecuted by the attempts of L'Es- 
trauge to force himself upon her. How at last she had found 
this little seaside village, and had rested there with her child, 
hoping its isolation and retirement would hide her. She told 
of her adventures in Loudon, of the escape so ably managed 
by AdMe, of the discovery of her hiding-place, of that inter- 
view, and of her persecutor's concluding words, which, as she 
believed, had foreshadowed her present trouble. 

*' This is the mystery," said Mrs. Grey in conclusion, look- 
ing down at the scarf, " for a vague idea begins to dawn on 
me that I did not leave it on that seat on the sandhills. I 
remember, or I think I remember — all tliat night is in a kind 
of maze — looking for it, and being annoyed by the belief that 
M. L'Estrange had taken it away with him for some reason 
best known to himself" 

" What !" said Arthur eagerly ; " then, after all, this might 
be explained. Mrs. Grey, do you know I begin to have a 
dawning suspicion that your husband was not the person who 
took away your child ? In the first place, to act in this way 



186 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

would be very unlike an English gentleman, such as, from 
your account, I imagine Mr. Grey to be ; then that threat of 
the villain who was annoying you was un peu fort — one might 
possibly see daylight through it ; then — " 

He stopped, for Margaret was giving no attention to his 
reasons. "Not my husband!" she cried, and there came a 
sudden light into her face. " If I could only think so, but 
even to wish it would be wrong. Think of my poor little 
darling in strange hands !" 

" That need scarcely alarm you. The person mth whom 
your child was seemed to take every care of her." 

"And you think that person was — ?" Margaret fixed her 
eye on Arthur. The dreadful wildness was gathering there 
once more. 

" Dear Mrs. Grey," he said earnestly, " I only say I have 
my suspicions. Trust me, I will leave no stone unturned to 
find your husband and child. I have a clue to both." 
" What do you mean ?" 

Arthur gave in answer the story of the Russian, omitting, 
of course, the suspicion of the fair St. Petersburgers. 

" My first step," he said, " shall be to look up Count Orloff. 
He has set the Russian police to work, and I believe has 
found out something through Mrs. Grey's solicitor in Eng- 
land. Your child and the gentleman with whom she is will 
certainly be conspicuous travellers. I made inquiries at York, 
at the hotel and station, and found that about a week ago they 
^ust have taken the train from York to Southampu u, so it is 
highly probable they were bound for some foreign port. We 
must set agents to work at Cherbourg, Havre, Lisbon and 
Gibraltar, for I think it scarcely likely they can have left 
Europe. Courage, my dear Mrs. Grey! I think we shall 
light upon them. I will follow the track most likely to have 
been taken by your husband, leaving the recovery of the 
child in the hands of my solicitor — a very difierent person, I 
can assure you, from Mr. Robinson — for if, as I suspect, this 
villain has taken his revenge by depriving you of your child, 
remember, it is an offence punishable by law, and he shall be 
hunted down till his crime is discovered and himself traced." 
The young man's form dilated, he stood erect, he looked 
what he was — an Englishman, strong, vigorous, full of noble 



"/ SHALL LIVE AND NOT DIE." 187 

impulse, of physical power, of untiring energy. The languor 
of the fashionable, the elegant good-for-nothingness, the non- 
chalant indifference, had all gone ; he had found an object 
and was ready to throw himself heart and soul into its pur- 
suit. 

Margaret listened to his hope-inspiring words, and she felt 
herself animated with a new courage. She turned to her 
young protector with glistening eyes : "And you are ready to 
do all this for me ? How shall I thank you ?" 

" By being strong and courageous," he answered ; " but, Mrs. 
Grey, it is I who should talk of gratitude. You have changed 
me from an idle good-for-nothing into a man with an object 
before him, an aim to which all his soul is given. I know it 
is a good thing. I feel it. It will be my first battle with the 
world's injustice. God grant it may succeed ! I believe it 
will. There is one thing more. You tell me that your land- 
lady, in relating the story of your child's disappearance, de- 
scribed your husband. Now, either one of two things. My 
theory, supported by the waiter at York and suggested by the 
man's own words, is wrong altogether, or else she has been 
bribed to give you false information. In the latter case — 
which, I must say, rather fits in with my own ideas — she ought 
to be watched ; and certainly this is no place for you. Who 
knows what she might not do in dread of discovery ? Here 
you are more or less in her power. Think a moment. Have 
you no friends ?" 

Margaret turned pale, " Jane has certainly acted strangely 
of late," she said, after a pause ; " she has even been insolen 
once or twice when, as she thought, I was too weak to notice 
it ; but I cannot think her quite so bad as you seem to imagine. 
I do not wish to leave this place yet ; you see, I have become 
accustomed to it. Then I have a kind of feeling that here, 
if anywhere, my trouble is to end. You remember that pic- 
ture which was the first link between you and me ? Do you 
know why it appealed to me so strangely? It was like a 
kind of dream I have often had. I used to say in the old 
days that I had what Goethe called the second sight. Some- 
times at superstitious moments I was inclined to think this 
dream a kind of vision of the future, and it comforted me be- 
yond measure. It has come so often and in such different 



1.S8 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

forms, but it always ends in the same way — Maurice coming 
back to me over the sea, and living here in my quiet corner. 
If I could tell you how much I have built on this small 
foundation ! But the dream only comes with the sea-sounds. 
In those miserable London days I used even to pray for it at 
night, I was so utterly hopeless ; it never came." 

Arthur looked thoughtful : "I shall see my cousin before 1 
go ; she has been very delicate lately, and my aunt, I believe, 
is very anxious for her to have change of air. Perhaps 'she 
would allow her to come here and stay with you for a time." 

Margaret shook her head : " I cannot hope for that, though 
of all things I think it would be the pleasautest ; but do not 
be uneasy on ray account. No doubt I shall manage very 
well by myself; and you will let me hear whenever any trace 
has been found ?" 

"Indeed I will, Mrs. Grey ; and cheer up, for I believe that 
will be soou." 

" God grant it !" 

Margaret clasped her thin hands together. She looked so 
frail, so shadow-like in the failing light, that Arthur's heart 
gave a sudden bound. What if she were fading — if, before 
he could gladden her by the news she craved, her spirit should 
have passed from earth? The thought made him impatient. 
He longed to be up and doing, taking the first step at least in 
his self-set task. And here would be a plea to urge with her 
husband. If he had ever loved her, surely, surely he would 
forget everything and fly back to her side when he should 
hear of her state. 

Arthur was ready with youth's burning eloquence to plead 
for her. He felt he could paint her in such colors that not 
the stoniest heart could resist him. And while he was think- 
ing it all out, already at his goal, pouring into the ears of the 
man he sought the history that had come upon his own youth 
like a life-giving power, of the beautiful, patient lady wasting 
her fair life away in faithful solitude, she turned from the 
open window, crossed the little room and sat down by hia 
side. 

" God has been good to me," she said gently. " I thought 
He would take me away in my sadness, life's broken entan- 
gled threads lying loosely in my hands, but now He has given 



ARTHUR AT WORK. 189 

rue back my hope. I shall live and not die, at least not yet. 
Young man, there is something in the Bible about the 'bless- 
ing of those who are ready to perish.' Surely in the sight of 
the All-pitiful that must be a good thing. It is yours. Poor 
that I am, I can offer you no more." 

Arthur's eye3 glistened. "I hold it more precious than 
gold," he said, stooping over her hand and raising it to hia 
lips ; •* with this I think I could engage the world." 



CHAPTER XIII. 
ARTHUR AT WORK. 

Wait, and Love himself will bring 

The drooping flower of knowledge, changed to fruit 

Of wisdom. 

And so Arthur Forrest's little love-dream was dispelled. 
In Margaret's presence, with her calm, saddened beauty before 
him, her gentle words in his ears, he had not seemed to feel 
it ; for as at the first her beauty had come upon him like a 
heaven-sent message, arousing dormant emotion, awaking his 
spirit from youth's self-worship, so now it continued its work 
by slaying absolutely the still dominant self within him. He 
had thought and hoped and longed and chafed through the 
weeks of London life, haunted by her presence and by the 
dream of gaining her. He saw her again, he recognized that 
she was not for him, and he submitted, without a single wish 
to drag down the goddess of his idolatry from her seat in the 
clouds to a lower seat by his side. Arthur was young. Had 
the dream come later he might have acted differently, but as 
yet he was tolerably free from the world-wisdom which so 
many able teachers were ready to impart ; besides, there was 
that in her quiet dignity, in her ready confidence, in her nat- 
ural way of accepting his knight-errantry, that would have 
effectually checked any presumption. She did not even seem 
to imagine that the passion she had inspired In the breast of 
this man, so much her junior, could be anything but transi- 
tory, and in her presence he acquiesced calmly. 



i90 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

The reaction came when he was alone in the hotel that 
night. To lose no time he had started for York in the even- 
ing, and the officious waiter, his friend of the day before, had 
procured for him the same rooms which he had occupied then. 
Peopled they had been with the creations of his fancy evoked 
by her, and the prospect of seeing her again ; he returned to 
them disappointed, denuded of hope, and there was a rue 
look in his young face as once more he inflicted the echo of 
his restlessness on the innocent occupant of the room below. 
For when all had been said and done — when he should have 
compassed heaven and earth to restore her to happiness and 
peace — when (for Arthur never dreamt of failure) through 
his efforts, and his alone, she should be enjoying once more 
the position from which by no fault of her own she had been 
torn — when her husband should return to his faith and devo- 
tion, and her child be given back to her arms, — then for him- 
self, what ? A grateful remembrance at most. Their lives 
would drift apart, ever more widely: he who believed he 
should be able to make her joy would yet form no part of it. 
His very love would have to be smothered — to be as if it had 
not been. With all the grand sentiments in the world to set 
against it, this is not an easy thing to bear. 

The greatest hero, the most self-abnegating being that ever 
lived, must, I think, have had these moments of reaction — 
moments when the heart, looking inward, aches a little for 
the poor trembling self which must be buried, hidden away 
out of sight, if the life would be whole and consistent. 

And Arthur Forrest was no hero ; only a young gentleman 
trained in the school of luxury and self-pleasing, and for the 
first time brought face to face with necessity. One thing in 
his favor was that it was necessity — that there could be no 
beating about the bush, no half measures. As a gentleman 
and a man of honor he was bound to serve the lady of \m 
choice, and to serve without hope of recompense — such rec- 
ompense, at least, as he had pictured to himself only twenty- 
four hours before. 

Perhaps nothing better could have happened to the young 
man than this early enforced lesson of submission to the law 
of necessity. Young men start off on life's race like wnl-fed 
stallions, scenting the goal afar off, and if the world be jcod- 



ARTHUR AT WORK. 191 

erately submissive they ride over her rough-shod till her 
weeds and nettles sting them and they fall back panting from 
the course. But if the yoke be borne early, submission be- 
comes a habit and its difficulty is infinitely less. Arthur, how- 
ever, could not be expected to be thankful for the salutary 
lesson, and what wonder that when the first excitement of 
planning and scheming, of playing the grand r6le of disinter- 
ested benefactor was over, he looked a trifle blue and crest- 
fallen, called himself hard names, and quarrelled with what 
he was for the moment pleased to look upon as his " ridicu- 
lous age !" 

There is something in the forced inaction of night, when it 
is not occupied entirely with its legitimate tenant, Sleep, to 
nurture morbid thoughts and gloomy ideas. Like misshapen 
ghosts they flee with the daylight — when, that is to say, their 
sources are not very deep in the spirit, imbedded there by 
cruel, unbending circumstance, for then night is the relief- 
bringer, morning has the pale terrors of reality in its train. 
Arthur's woes were rather of the imagination than the heart. 
Morning and action dissipated them. 

He was up early, and before midday had satisfied the pro- 
prietor of the hotel about the ownership of the Indian scarf, 
had gathered fresh particulars from the waiter, had cross- 
examined Jane, the soft-hearted chambermaid, with all the 
acumen of a barrister, had caught the morning mail, and was 
far on his way to London. 

The fruit of his first day's exertions — for he could not rest 
until something had been done — was that he had obtained 
the permission of his guardians (merely nominal, for he was 
within three weeks of attaining his majority) for a lengthened 
absence from England, and that by the next morning's mail a 
messenger was ready to stai't for Middlethorpe, with a hopeful 
missive from himself and a little casket containing the jewelry 
which had been left to the grasping hands and predatory in- 
stincts of Mr. Robinson. 

The messenger was an elderly woman, with gray hair and 
a pleasant, homely face. She had been Arthur Forrest's 
nurse, and his mother had left her a pension amply sufficient 
to keep her in comfort and supply her few wants. The old 
woman's afiection for her nursling was so great that she had 



192 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOTf. 

never lost sight of him, and the young man, who knew how 
much he owed to her tender care, had gratified her in hia 
youth and manhood by visiting her from time to time. 

Old Mrs. Foster had been the recipient of Arthur's con- 
fidence more than once, and she had helped him out of many 
a boyish scrape. In this dilemma he thought of her. The 
tind old woman took an interest in his tale, especially because 
there seemed to be no scheme attached to it for the entrapping 
of her darling. That he should be led away by the snares of 
womankind was a subject of constant terror to Mrs. Foster. 

" Tak' tent of the lassies, my bairn," she would say to him 
at times ; " they're an awfu' sight tae deep for the lads." 

But on this occasion there seemed to be no lassie in the 
question ; only a suffering lady, who, in the very teeth of her 
bairn's most dangerous admissions (over these the old woman 
shook her head solemnly), had confessed to a husband still, as 
it seemed, in the land of the living. 

She consented readily — all the more so, perhaps, because 
of the power it would give her of watching the matter — to 
what Arthur had been almost afraid to mention, that she her- 
self should become for the time being a kind of confidential 
servant to the lady, supposing Margaret herself would permit 
it. In any case she would not shrink from the office of mes- 
senger and from the task of observation, for with her young 
master she was of opinion that the landlady was a dangeroua 
person. 

It was a tolerable amount of work for one day, and Arthur 
was satisfied. He felt that the stone was set rolling at all 
points, and that it would reach its destination in time if human 
skill and human energy could accomplish anything. 



TWO INTERVIEWS. 193 

CHAPTER XIV. 

TWO INTERVIEWS. 

One equal temper of heroic hearts, 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 

Mb. Robinson was virtuously indignant and highly in- 
censed at the turn matters had taken. He talked loudly at 
home and among his religious friends — who were accustomed 
to small roughnesses in his style, but attributed them to the 
manly nature of his Christianity — about the young jacka- 
napes, another of your fine gentlemen, who impudently med- 
dled with what could not possibly concern him ; but in pres- 
ence of Arthur Forrest's young chivalry he was rather more 
subdued than usual. Not that he appeared to be crestfallen — 
that would have been a tacit acknowledgment of feeling him- 
self to be in the wrong : he only took the matter as was be- 
coming to a man and a Christian to take it, laying himself 
•down ostentatiously for his young friend to tread upon, but 
bringing in from time to time unexpected hints about the 
youthfulness of the course of conduct he was pursuing, about 
the necessity for common sense in dealing with the world, and 
the certainty he felt that sooner or later his young friend 
would find out his mistake. 

Arthur left him with no victory but such as was repre- 
sented by the casket, which Mr. Robinson had willingly sur- 
rendered. 

The lawyer assured Arthur Forrest, showing his teeth and 
fcmiliug pleasantly, that when he knew more of the world he 
would be aware that what Mrs. Gray had done was a thing 
done every day. He could show — and he opened drawer 
after drawer to substantiate his statement — pounds' woith of 
jewelry left, and left wisely, by ladies who had no need for it 
for the moment, in the keeping of their solicitor. If Mrs. 
Grey had ceased to repose confidence in him — he shrugged 
his shoulders to prove his entire indifference — he could only 
say that the sooner she took charge of her own valuables the 
better, both for her and for himself. Certainly, she had acted 

13 



194 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

ratLer strangely after all the trouble he had taken in the 
affair for very inadequate remuneration — and his time, as all 
the world knew, was valuable ; but one must not expect grati- 
tude in this world. He only trusted — for he could not help 
Btill taking a certain interest in the matter — that everything 
would be far better managed. 

Arthur left the office, in fact, with a very bewildered feeling 
about his brain. He had known Mr. Robinson well by rumor, 
but hitherto he had not been brought into very close contact 
with him. This interview shook him considerably. He was 
at a loss to account for the strange mixture in the man — his 
apparent frankness and bonhomie, his real selfishness and hy- 
pocrisy. Before men and women know the world well they 
find it difficult to understand mixtures. People, with them, 
are ranged into two vast classes, each class bearing written on 
its brow in legible characters the legend of its belonging. 
The good are in their imagination all frankness, courage, in- 
genuity ; the bad have the malignant scowl of a villain in a 
play. They are totally unprepared for the frank address, the 
words of common sense and true wisdom, which men whose 
hearts are bad have picked up in intercourse with their bet- 
ters, and which they use daily in the world as a kind of cur- 
rent coin whose worth is incalculable. Mr. Robinson had 
plenty of this, and it somewhat staggered Arthur. But the 
recollection of his friend strengthened him, and he cast aside 
as unworthy all the lawyer's hints. 

Quietly he requested Mr. Robinson to use neither time nor 
money in the efibrt to find Mr. Grey, and to prepare for hav- 
ing Mrs. Grey's aflfairs most thoroughly looked into, as she 
had friends who wouM see justice done to her. The lawyer's 
parting shrug and voluble assurance of entire indifierence 
were lost on the young man. He had a more satisfactory in- 
terview later in the same day. His own man of business, Mr. 
Golding, was shrewd and well versed in character. He knew 
■where his own interests lay, and when it was possible he 
guardei them carefully; but he was actually — what Mr. 
Robinson made a loud profession of being — a God-fearing, 
conscientious man. He, or the firm he represented, and which 
had succeeded to him from his father, had taken charge of 
the property inherited by Arthur Forrest for some genera- 



TWO INTERVIEWS. 195 

iions. Naturally, then, he took a deep interest in it, and it 
was a matter of some moment to him that the young heir 
should place the same confidence in the firm as his father had 
done before him. 

When, therefore, he came with his tale — a tale thai tc the 
man of the world sounded rather romantic and far-fetched— 
Mr. Golding listened patiently. He did not fail to represent 
to his client that the business on which he was embarking was 
of a highly delicate nature ; that action of his might very 
possibly be looked upon as an impertinent interference ; that 
in any case his success — in one at least of the objects he had 
set before him — was extremely doubtful. Not that there could 
be much difficulty in finding Mr. Grey. If he should still be 
above ground he would be found ; if not, the fact could 
easily be ascertained. The question was, whether, in the first 
place, there had not been some motive beyond that imagined 
for his long absence (it was difficult for a hard-headed man of 
business like Mr. Golding even to imagine how any man could 
behave so impulsively in such an emergency), and in this 
case his return was certainly improbable ; whether, in the 
second place, should he have left England solely on this ac- 
count, his belief in his wife's unworthiness would not be too 
deeply rooted to yield to a few enthusiastic words ; whether, 
in the third place, granted even that his mood toward his wife 
had softened in the interval, he would not resent the inter- 
vention of a stranger, and be inclined to feel annoyance at a 
stranger's intimate knowledge of his afiairs. 

To all this Arthur only answered, " I know there are diffi- 
culties: I am prepared for them. I will set to work with 
great prudence, but set to work I must. The question is this, 
Do you feel inclined to help me ?" 

The shrewd man of law saw that his young client was in 
earnest, and he demurred no longer. "I will help you 
willingly," he said. "I only wished to prepare you for cer- 
tain difficulty and very probable disappointment. And now 
to work. This gentleman was last heard of at St. Peters- 
burg?" 

"Yes. He left there ill and evidently dissatisfied. His 
friends feared he had some intention of committing suicide." 

The lawyer's lip curled ever so slightly: " The ladies were 



A 96 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

in want of a bit of sensation. Probably Mr. Maurice Grej 
is forgotten by this time. More likely, I should say, late 
hours and a gay life had knocked him up. There is no city 
where a man can live faster than in St. Petersburg. lie left, 
probably, to get a little rest, and would not write for fear of 
another pressing invitation. But he can't live on air, wher- 
ever he may be. Can you tell me if he derives his income 
from property in England ?" 

" I believe he does, and that he communicates from time to 
time with his solicitor in London. I have his name too. But 
I believe he is close, or has been recommended to secresy by 
his client." 

Arthur passed a card to Mr. Golding, who glanced at it and 
gave a sudden exclamation : "That Grey ! Why, I know all 
about him. You have a mortgage on his property, Mr. 
Forrest, and a very first-rate security it is, too ; we could not 
wish for better. I will write at once to my friend Edwards 
appointing an interview. There's a little matter of business 
between us, so he will suspect nothing. Then I shall draw 
him on to Mr. Grey. He has once or twice entertained me 
with an account of his eccentricities. You must not be too 
sanguine. I believe Mr. Grey has a kind of objection to 
letting any one know his true address ; so, even upon the 
authority of Edwards, I may be sending you ofi* on a wild- 
goose chase. However, if we hear something of his where- 
abouts, we shall have less difficulty in tracing him." 

"How strange," said Arthur meditatively, "that I should 
have had something to do with him all this time without 
knowing it ! But about the other matter, Golding — the 
child?" 

" There I disagree with you entirely. That any man can 
have taken so stupid a revenge is really absurd, even to im- 
agine. No : Mrs. Grey's first impression was correct. Her 
husband wished to overlook the education of his daughter. 
He carried out his purpose in a most unwarrantable manner ; 
but evidently the man is soured — /should say scarcely respon- 
sible. Perhaps he sent an agent to secure the child, and this 
would account for the gray hair and foreign appearance. 
More probably still, a good deal of this was put on for effect 
by your informant." 



TWO INTERVIEWS. 197 

"I ion't think so," returned Arthur. "It is just possible, 
as you say, that Mr. Grey deputed some one to fetch his child, 
but it would be a very strange kind of proceeding.'' 

" Not half so strange as your foreigner encumbering hira^ 
self with such a charge out of mere jealousy. However, all 
this remains to be proved. Southampton, you say? I wili 
send a clerk there to make inquiries — a sharp fellow ; he has 
often done me good service in this line. He shall start this 
afternoon. It's a pity it has been delayed so long. If 
Robinson had understood his duty, he would have set this 
search on foot at once. In eight days no one knows what can 
be done with a child. However, I have great hope of a clue 
from Southampton. As you say, they must be conspicuous 
travellers. And now, my dear sir, you are interesting your- 
self very much about your neighbors, but are you aware that 
in three weeks' time we shall have to give an account of our 
proceedings during your minority ? It is quite necessary that 
you should make some provision for the transaction of youi 
business, especially as, if you follow out your present plans, 
your whereabouts for the next few months may be doubtful." 
" I have thought of it," replied Arthur gravely, " and I 
hope I am not totally unaware of the responsibilities of my 
position. For the present, however, I shall ask you to cou- 
tiuue to take the entire management. When this affair which 
occupies me so much is over, I shall be ready to receive your 
statement, which I know will be satisfactory in every way." 
He smiled as he spoke and held out his hand. 

Mr. Goldiug was surprised as well as touched. It was 
pleasant to the man of business — whose labor in the cause of 
young Forrest's family had been to a certain degree a labor 
of love — to find his client able to take a practical, common- 
sense view of his position, and to appreciate his upright and 
assiduous care. 

He smiled in return, and shook the young man's hand 
warmly : "You gratify me, my dear sir. Yes, indeed, I have 
done my best, my very best, for the estate, as my father did 
before me ; and the day upon which I shall deliver up my 
accounts and those of your guardians into your hands is one to 
which I have long looked forward with pleasant anticipation. 
In the mean time I may say, in the name of your guardians 



198 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

that you can draw upon us in excess of your ordinary allow- 
ance. There are certain accumulations of income which we 
always thought would serve for some such purpose as this 
projected journey. We could have wished, of course, that it 
had been delayed, but as matters stand for you to anticipate 
their receipt by a few days can be an affair of no great mo- 
ment to us." 

And thus it was arranged. Arthur's way was smoothed, 
and nothing remained to be done but the attainment of some 
clue to Maurice Grey's place of refuge. 



CHAPTER XV. 

THE YOUNG PEOPLE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER AT 

LAST. 

If that there be one scene in life wherefrom 
Evil is absent, it is pure early love. 

ADELii's languor increased with the summer. The heat, 

which had grown intense in and about London, the fatigues 

of the season, the anxiety about Arthur and their mutual 

friend Mrs. Grey, — all these worked upon a constitution in 

*which the seeds of delicacy were deeply rooted. 

Mrs. Churchill began to be anxious, and to cast about for 
some suitable method of giving her daughter change of air. 
Nothing presented itself for the moment. It was too early 
for Scarborough or Whitby ; only plebeians frequented Brigh- 
ton in July ; against the Continent, Switzerland, Germany or 
the Italian lakes Ad^le protested loudly, and the good Mrs. 
Churchill felt a certain sinking of heart at the prospect of 
putting the breadth of the Channel between herself and Eng- 
land during the London season. The little gossip of society, 
the projets de mariage, the whispers of political complications, 
the scandals of high life were dear to Mrs. Churchill's soul. 
And at this special time, when the air was rife with rumor, it 
would have been irritating, to say the least of it, to go out 
into the blank of an existence from which the Momina Post 



UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER AT LAST. 199 

and Court Journal would of necessity be excluded. But acne 
of these things could alter the fact. AdSle was pining in the 
great city ; she wanted change of air. 

Indecision and anxiety are not improving to the temper. 
The gjod-natured Mrs. Churchill became sharp and irritable. 
She was annoyed with Adele for being ill, and with Fate for 
not delaying her illness by a few weeks, when London could 
be left without a pang, and the bracing climate of Scar- 
borough would have been open to them ; she was angry with 
Arthur for his new independence and mysterious course of 
conduct, and especially with that absurd Mrs. Grey, who 
seemed, by means of her romantic story and inexplicable 
power of fascination, to be at the root of all the inconveni- 
ence. The worst of it was that this internal effervescence 
could be allowed very little external vent, for Arthur and 
Mrs. Grey were out of reach, and the doctors, several of 
whom had been consulted, had given express orders that 
Ad^le should be kept as quiet as possible. Of course it was 
idle to rave against Fate, for Fate is calm and impersonal, 
and only bruises the breasts of the tumultuous. The servants 
were the only sufferers, but they took their mistress's ill-tem- 
per with great equanimity, knowing their personal comforts 
would not be one jot diminished, and that this storm would 
pass as others had passed before it. But Mrs. Churchill 
could not always keep her annoyance from her daughter, and 
on one of these hot days her feelings became quite too much 
for her. 

Ad^e was on the sofa again, deeply engrossed in one of her 
pet volumes with the calf-skin binding. Her mother had been 
wandering about from one position to another in the vain ef- 
fort to cool herself; she had tried at least a dozen different 
fans, she had bathed her face and hands again and again in 
sau-de-cologne, she had read a little and worked a little, had 
taken up the paper and thrown it down again, had sighed and 
fumed and bustled till her state was really pitiable. 

" Adele," she cried at last, " for Goodness' sake put down 
that book. Whatever the doctor may say about your not 
being crossed, I'm quite sure — and so I told him only yester- 
day — that so much reading is very bad for the mind, especially 
in hot weather. Why, I can't even get through the paper ; 



200 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

and you look as pale as a ghost. Oh," wringing her hands 
in desperation, " if I only knew what to do with you !" 

"Only don't excite yourself, mamma," said AdMe lan- 
guidly. 

" Excite myself? That is not a very dutiful way of ad- 
dressing your mother, AdMe, especially when what you call 
my excitement is solely on your account." 

"I know it, mamma dear," said Ad&le gently, putting 
down the obnoxious volume. "Forgive me if I annoyed 
you, but really I wish so much that you would cease being 
anxious about me. I shall be better as soon as ever the 
weather is a little cooler." 

"And how long may we suppose that will be?" Mrs. 
Churchill panted, and began again agitating desperately the 
latest fan, a feathered one. "I tell you what it is, if this 
goes on I shall shut up the house and leave London alto- 
gether." 

She spoke defiantly, as if London would be greatly the suf- 
ferer by such a step. 

AdSle shook her head: "You would certainly not like it, 
dear. No : I'll tell you what to do. You must get Mary 
Churchill to stay with you here. It will be pleasant for her 
to see a little of London, and you know Aunt Mary will be 
charmed. Send me away somewhere for a fortnight. I have 
a kind of longing for the sea." The young girl closed her 
eyes. " I can imagine it, mamma, always so fresh and beau- 
tiful — Lord Byron's ' deep and dark blue ocean.' How nice 
it would be after the tiresome, dusty streets and squares ! I 
shall get better there directly ; I feel it." 

Mrs. Churchill sighed impatiently: "One would think to 
hear you, AdSle, that a young lady could live at the seaside 
by herself, without any protection. Pray, little Miss Wis- 
dom, how am I to send you to this sea which you describe sc 
romantically? I do believe those poetry-books are at the 
root of all the mischief. I wish they were all drowned in 
that same blue ocean. Blue, indeed ! I never see it any- 
thing but a dirty gray, I suppose I want the fine poetic in- 
sight. And instead of helping me you have started another 
difficulty. I promised your aunt Mary to show your cousin a 
little of the world this season ; of course it would have been 



UNDEBSTAND EACH OTHER AT LAST. 201 

pleasanter for you to have gone out together ; you are such 
different styles that it might have been very safely doncs. I 
must say it is extremely tiresome to have all one's plans up- 
set. I wouldn't mind so much if I could see any way out f 
all this, but really and truly I was never so utterly at sea a 
my life." 

" Write to Aunt Mary," said Addle cheerfully, " and leave 
me to manage the rest." 

" Leave you, indeed ! I might as well leave a baby. I 
know your unpractical schemes of old Dear me ! I wish I 
could think of some feasible plan." 

" Only don't fret yourself, dear," said Adele, kissing her 
mother affectionately; "and listen! is that not Arthur's 
knock? I dare say he can help us." 

"Very likely!" said Mrs. Churchill in a manner that was 
meant to be splendidly satirical. " However," she continued, 
"I must dress now, but I shall come down again before I go 
out; and remember, Adele, if I find he has excited your 
mind by any of his absurd romances, I shall forbid him the 
house at once." 

Ad^le's eyes twinkled pleasantly at this awful threat. She 
knew her mother too well to have even the faintest fear of its 
fulfilment. 

When Arthur came in she saw in a moment that he was 
changed. The languid, quasi-sentimental look had gone from 
his face, his step was brisk and vigorous, he held himself 
erect ; he even seemed to his cousin's partial eyes to have 
grown since she saw him last. For the moment as she gazed 
she trembled. It was all over, then. He had come to tell 
her of success ; but, reproving herself for the selfishness of 
the thought, she held out her hand with a smile : " The sea- 
air has done you good, Arthur ; you look a different person." 

He looked down upon her kindly : " I think I am better, 
Ad61e^ and in more ways than one ; but, my poor little cou- 
Bin, I can't return the compliment; you look as pale as a 
ghost. What in the world has Aunt Ellen been doing with 
you?" 

Ad61e flushed painfully, for she was impatient to know 

. what his experience had been : " Please don't mind my looks, 

Arthur. Remember I am curious. Be kind to me, <iear," 



202 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

she smiled faintly ; " keep me no longer in suspense. Your 
eyes tell me something has been done." 

Arthur sat down, and took one of her hands in his: "What 
do you read in them, Adele ?" 

She looked away, shading her face with her hand : " That 
you have something to live for at last — that she, the woman 
whom you love — and I believe she is worthy of your love" — 
it was bravely said, though there was a certain rebellious 
rising in the poor little throat ; she paused a moment to choke 
it down, then continued very calmly — "that Margaret has 
chosen you for her protector, that you are already busy plan- 
ning to restore her to happiness." 

Arthur smiled again, then stooped over his cousin's sofa : 
" Why do you look away, Ad^le ? If I should say that all 
this is true, that you are the most penetrating little lady in 
the world, would you not be glad, seeing that I have only 
obeyed you ?" 

" Don't, Arthur, don't," was the stifled answer, for he was 
struggling with the hand which hid her averted face, and 
tears were in her eyes, tyrannous exponents of a secret she 
would have died rather than reveal. Arthur might have 
descanted with reason on the capriciousness of woman's cha 
racter, but he did not ; he only smiled very tenderly, and 
drew the tear-stained face to a surer shelter as he told in a 
few earnest, manly words of the experiences of the last few 
days, and of the task he had set himself. 

" Addle," he whispered in conclusion, " I am cured. When 
I left you my brain was full of mad ideas. She showed me 
their folly, and now I can admire her, I can honor her, I can 
even love her, as a brother might, with the purest desire for 
her happiness, which I still earnestly hope to restore by giv- 
ing her back her husband. For myself, my dream has 
changed. Listen, Addle, dear. Look up at me once: my 
present hope is this — to strive by every means in my power 
to make myself worthy of the gentlest, the most womanly, 
the noblest — " 

She read the rest in his eyes, and with a smile that irradi- 
ated her face till it was absolutely beautiful she looked up 
and put her finger on his lips : " Hush, dear, hush ! say no 
more ; you make me ashamed of myself, I have been so 



UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER AT LAST. 203 

impatient and foolish. But, Arthur, I am happy now, so 
happy !" 

She rested her head on the sofa and looked up at him, her 
blue eyes shining and her cheeks glowing with soft excite- 
ment; a little smile of contentment was playing about her 
lips, her golden hair fell back from her forehead in rippling 
waves; she was fairer than ever before, for nothing is so 
beautifying as happiness, especially to women of Ad^le'a 
type. 

Her cousin felt it. He looked at her with a smile. " Do 
you know, Adele," he said gently, "I never thought you 
beautiful before, but you are beautiful. What is it that is 
new to me in your face, little cousin ?" 

She shook her head : " I can't tell, dear, unless perhaps it 
may be that never in all my life have I been so very, very 
happy." 

By which answer it will be seen that Ad^le was but a 
novice in the ways of the world. She was not afraid, now 
she knew her love was returned, of letting its fullness be seen. 

Let him love her little or much, that he loved her was 
enough. From the moment that was known she could not 
help letting him see she was his without reserve. 

And Arthur's was not a nature to abuse such confidence 
" She trusts me fully. She shall never regret it," he said to 
himself. The consciousness of love and confidence unre- 
servedly given is ennobling to some natures. His cousin's 
simple trust was a new rock of strength to the young man. 

He stooped and kissed the young girl's ruddy lips, and there 
went from her warm, glowing life and love a thrill of some- 
thing reciprocal through his being. He loved her, not with 
the first unreasoning love of the boy throwing his wilful soul 
into a dream that has come he knows not how — that is beau- 
tiful, fascinating, enthralling, he knows not why — but with a 
riper, better feeling, for those weeks' experience had served to 
form the young man's character, and it may be that for the 
time he was even in advance of his years. 

He loved his cousin for herself, with a love founded on the 
sure basis of unwavering respect. He had seen her as she 
was, and he admired her with all his soul for her beautiful 
unselfishness. Besides, she loved him with a force of loving 



204 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SXO W. ^ 

that only a few weeks before would have been utterly incom- 
prehensible to him. Arthur's suffering had taught him some- 
thing, and he was able to understand his cousin. 

After the mutual revelation they chatted together pleas- 
antly, formed plans by the thousand for Arthur's guidance in 
the difficult task that was before him and for Ad^le's da* 
meaner in his absence. They were as happy as two birds in a 
nest, for Arthur was at rest in his heart and in his conscience, 
and in the light of her own happiness and pride Ad^le could 
not even be distressed at the indefinite separation before them. 
For with the sanguine nature of youth she could not bring 
herself to believe it would be long. 

But as they talked th*e glow faded from her face. She was 
still weak, and the glad excitement that had lent so soft a 
bloom to her cheek for a time was itself exhausting, 

Arthur was alarmed as he looked at her, she was so pale 
and fragile. This friend, whose affection he had almost de- 
spised, was becoming infinitely dear to him, and with a sudden 
pang he thought that perhaps this delicacy might mean more 
than they had imagined. 

" Adele," he said in a startled tone, leaning over her sofa 
and gazing anxiously into her eyes, " you must keep nothing 
from me ; remember I am to be your husband. Tell me the 
whole truth, or I shall go away from you with a haunting 
fear. Is anything seriously wrong with you ? Does the doc- 
tor seem alarmed ?" 

She smiled a glad smile. It was sweet to be so cared 
for. 

" In all honesty I believe not, dear. All I want is change 
of air. You see I am weak," she sighed, "and all these peo- 
ple coming and going tire me. Oh, Arthur, if you knew how 
I long for the sea sometimes ! It is like a kind of home-sick- 
ness. I feel as if I should be well at once if I could onl/ 
hear the waves Don't you know — that nice, fresh, restful 
sound?" 

" I can't conceive why Aunt Ellen keeps you here," said 
Arthur with the indignant impatience of youth. A few days 
before he had not been so boundlessly considerate for his 
cousin himself. But human nature is ever the same. We 
would wish all our neighbors to view the landscape from q m 



UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER AT LAST. 205 

own standpoint; indeed, we are sometimes highly incensed 
if they persist in looking at it from theirs. 

" Poor mamma !" said Adele, " she is quite put out and 
puzzled about me. You se«, she never likes to leave London 
at this time; and then she promised to have Cousin Mary 
here, and there is so much going on." 

" But why need she go?" persisted Arthur. "Now, if she 
would only agree to the arrangement, and if you could stand 
the journey, I would willingly see you as far as Middlethorpe. 
Mrs. Grey has plenty of spare room, she would be delighted 
to see you, and old Martha is travelling there to-day, so that 
you would be well taken care of; then later in the year 
Aunt Ellen could pick you up on her way to Scarborough." 

Adele shook her head : "/ should like it very much, but 
I fear mamma won't. She will call it one of our unpractical 
schemes." 

" But that's all nonsense," said Arthur impatiently ; " she 
must either take you away herself or let some one else do it, 
and surely I am as fit a person as any one to decide on what 
is fitting for my future wife." 

AdSle laughed out merrily then, for as the last words were 
spoken in a tone of indescribable importance, the door opened 
and Mrs. Churchill appeared, radiant with smiles and good- 
humor. She had caught the latter part of Arthur's sentence, 
and its decisive tenor set her mind completely at rest. 
Evidently these ridiculous young people had at last settled 
matters to their own satisfaction and hers. 

" Treason in the camp !" she said, gayly, repulsing her 
nephew's oflTered hand. " No, no, sir ; before I have anything 
whatever to say to you I must hear the burden of your com- 
plaint, and understand from your own lips what is fitting for 
your future wife." 

"Mamma!" "Aunt Ellen!" AdSle and Arthur were 
covered with confusion in a moment. 

'•Blushing, too!" said that lady unpityingly. "Come, 
Master Arthur, your confusion is becoming, and Ad^le's 
blushes particularly charming, but Jam not answered. What 
are your lordship's commands ? for I suppose they must be 
obeyed." 

" Must they. Aunt Ellen ? tant mieax" answered the young 



206 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

man lightly ; " then I shall lay them upon you without delay. 
This young lady " — he took one of Ad^le's hands and held it 
in his — " my future wife, as you observe, is looking wretchedly 
ill and worn ; she requires change of air at once." 

Mrs. Churchill's face clouded : " Easily stated, my dear 
nephew ; the difficulty is at the present moment to give it to 
her," 

" The difficulty can easily be overcome. Aunt Ellen, if you 
win only have confidence in my judgment. You have heard 
Bjmething about Mrs. Grey — " 

" And quite enough, Arthur ; pray don't begin upon that 
old story." 

" But I must, indeed, Aunt Ellen, if you are to understand 
what I want. Mrs. Grey has been good enough to put all 
her afiairs in my hands. I have learned from her that the 
separation between herself and her husband was brought 
about by a misunderstanding which she has been allowed no 
opportunity of explaining. My business now is to find out 
her husband and make him understand the true state of 
affairs." 

" All very well," broke in Mrs. Churchill impatiently ; " and 
I'm glad to hear she had the good taste and honesty to let 
you know at least that her husband is living. But, pray, 
what has this to do with Ad^le ?" 

" Patience for one moment. Aunt Ellen. I only trouble 
you with all these details that you may know my scheme for 
my cousin is not so unpractical as it may seem. Mrs, Grey, 
I am firmly convinced, is an honorable, high-minded lady, or 
else indeed I could not wish to entrust her, even for one day, 
with the keeping of any one so near and dear to me as Adele 
must be under any circumstances ; for {please let me go on 
for one more moment) my scheme is this : Mrs. Grey has a 
charming little house on the Yorkshire coast ; the air is splen- 
did, the neighborhood is quiet." 

Mrs. Churchill could not help smiling : "Don't take a leaf 
out of Murray, Arthur." 

But the young man continued seriously : " She will be de- 
lighted to receive Ad(;le for a time. If you agree to this, I 
can take her to Middlethorpe before I go abroad, and you, ca 
your way to Scarborough in the autumn, can bring her o» 



UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER AT LAST. 207 

tvith you. Old Martha will be there, for I sent her on to-day 
with some jewelry belonging to Mrs, Grey which I have re 
claimed from her lawyer. You know Martha will look after 
Ad^le's comfort as well as you could. Come now, Aunt 
Kllen, is this such a very unpractical scheme ?" 

" Perhaps not, since your Mrs, Grey has turned out to be 
a respectable matron after all ; but what warrant have w€ 
that her story is true ?" 

" Mamma !" began Ad^le indignantly, but Arthur stopped 
her: 

" My moral conviction of her truth is enough for me, Aunt 
Ellen, and for Adele ; I believe it would be for you if you 
had once seen her. But for your satisfaction I can tell you 
that her story has been rather strangely confirmed. I went 
to see Golding about it this morning, for I wished to set him 
on the track of Mrs. Grey's child, who, I should tell you, was 
mysteriously stolen away from her about a week ago. He 
knows Mrs. Grey's solicitor, and had heard from him all the 
leading points of the story," 

Mrs, Churchill sighed : " Ah, well ! I hope no harm will 
come of it. I must say it's a queer state of affairs altogether, 
but as far as I can see it seems the best plan. Adele is cer- 
tainly old enough to take, care of herself, and Mrs. Grey 
could scarcely have any ulterior design in asking her to stay 
at the house. Then old Mrs. Foster being there is a great 
thing ; she is a most trustworthy person. I suppose it will 
be necessary for me to write to Mrs. Grey, but how am I to 
put it? Is she supposed to have sent an invitation by 
you?" 

Adele's eyes were glistening with delight at this happy 
termination. " Never mind about that, mamma," she said 
gayly. " I will write a little note to Margaret to prepare her 
for my coming, and, let me see, if you like, Arthur, I can 
Btart the day after to-morrow." 

" My dear child, how impetuous you are !" 

" The day after to-morrow, Aunt Ellen," said Arthur de- 
cisively ; " that will give me to-morrow for further inquiries 
in town, the day after for our journey, then on the day follow- 
ing, if at all possible, I shall start for the Continent." 

"Well, well," said Aunt Ellen, good-humoredly, "you 



208 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

young people have taken the law into your own hands, so all 
I have to do is to submit." 

And thus the matter was arranged to the mutual satis&c- 
tion of the cousins. 



CHAPTER XVL 

A STORM. 

There's somewhat in this world amiss, 
Shall be unriddled by and by. 

The sultry afternoon was closed by a stormy evening. Aa 
Arthur and Adele sat together in the library — for Mrs. 
Churchill, who was herself at a large dinner-party, had been 
graciously pleased to leave them alone together in this coziest 
corner of the comfortable house — the clouds began to gather 
and a moaning, sighing wind to sweep up the street. 

" There is going to be a storm," said Ad61e with a little 
shiver ; " close the curtains, like a good old fellow, and come 
to tea." 

" Don't you like storms, Addle ? I thought you were so 
brave." 

" Sometimes, but not to-night." 

She rose from her seat at the table and stood by his side, 
leaning her hand on his shoulder and her little rounded chin 
on her hand. 

"How the clouds are driven about, and how wild they 
look ! Oh come away, Arthur. I am so glad I am not 
alone!" 

" Why, my little cousin ? Is lightning more dangerous in 
Bolitude ?" 

" Everything seems more dangerous when one is alone ; 
but you don't understand me, Arthur. I never feel as if a 
storm were dangerous. It's not fear, but a kind of feeling 
rather difficult to explain, as though bad things were about 
and near us." 

** Witches on broomsticks and malignant fairies," suggested 
Arthur. 



A STORM. 209 

Adile laughed : " Not exactly. I lost my faith in them a 
few years ago ; indeed, by the bye, I never believed in them. 
My fairies were always pretty and good. This storm makes 
me think of wicked people more than wicked spirits. There ! 
look ! That yellow, sinister-looking flash brought before me 
as distinctly as if I had seen him at the moment the face of 
Margaret Grey's tormentor, the tall dark man who smiled in 
at the window so insolently. Oh, I do hope and trust I ^hall 
never meet him anywhere !" 

" How funny !" said Arthur lightly : " the storm made me 
also think of some one connected with Mrs. Grey. That hor- 
rid old landlady's face came in a most contorted manner be- 
fore my mind. I fear that woman is no better than she ought 
to be; however," he drew out his watch, "if Martha has fol- 
lowed out my directions she ought to be at the cottage now. 
Let me see : the train is due in York at half-past four, by six 
she should be at Middlethorpe Station, then a two hours' 
drive. I hope it is all right, but I can't help wishing I had 
got the old woman to start last night." 

" "What are you afraid of, dear ?" said AdMe nervously. 

Arthur laughed, but there was something forced in hi» 
mirth : " "We'll draw the curtains, Adele. You have infected 
me with your fancies. I really feel as if something uncanny 
were abroad to-night." They sat down together to the tea- 
table luxuriously spread with rich plate and china. There 
were no hot .fumes of gas to poison the atmosphere, but a sil- 
ver reading-lamp cast its warm light upon the table, leaving 
the heavy crimson curtains in their long folds, the tall stately 
bookcases and the oaken cabinet in shadow. It was a pleas- 
ant room, restful to the senses. Adele looked round her. 
" How comfortable we are here to-night, Arthur ! and," as a 
sullen crash of thunder and the splash of falling rain came 
from outside, " how desolate it must be out there ! Oh, Ar- 
thur, why can't every one be as happy and comfortable as we 
are?'' 

For the sound of the tempest had brought the eternal 
shadow that lurks in the background of every human joy to 
the young girl's soul, and she was ready to reproach herself 
for her own exuberant gladness. 

" It's much better not to think of it at all," said A rthur 
u 



210 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

lightly — " at least not to disturb one's self;" and then he added 
more gravely, " I think if we each do our best to lessen the 
amount of human suffering, we may safely enjoy our own 
happiness." 

"And you are doing yours," said Ad^le, looking admiringly 
at the young face ennobled by its transient gravity ; " if you 
succeed in bringing back happiness to that one life, it will be 
something to have lived for." 

" If I succeed !" Arthur sighed ; some of the rebellious 
thoughts of the preceding evening were troubling him once 
more. He rose and paced the room. "I feel so restless, 
Adele," he said in explanation. "When this storm has 
cleared off a little I shall go out for a stroll." 

Was there a reason for his restlessness? Had some electric 
current, flashing through the troubled air, notified him of the 
terrible scene that was being enacted under the storm-sounds 
in the distant little village, where the woman to whom the first 
love of his boyhood had been given was, as he fondly believed, 
resting calmly in her dwelling, cheered by the hope and con- 
fidence he had brought her ? 

Who can tell ? for life has many chords, and Nature has 
agents infinite and varied to work her strange will, and hu- 
manity is a complex thing that no philosopher has yet been 
abJe to resolve into all its component parts. Matter he may 
hold, but mind defies him, and these strange coincidences, 
these half-revelations, are all of the impalpable spirit, hu- 
manity's crown and power. 

It will be remembered that in the course of the last con- 
versation between Margaret Grey and her young protector he 
had expressed in very strong terms his distrust of her land- 
lady, and had even hinted some suspicion of her false dealing 
in the information she had given about the lost child. 

That conversation had been overheard by Jane Rodgers. 
Something of this she had suspected, and with ear applied to 
the keyhole she had been listening to every syllable of the 
conversation. Much of it had been inexplicable. It required 
the disclosures of the morning, which had been given on the 
seashore utterly out of reach of her ears, to give any meaning 
to much that passed between Mrs. Grey and her visitor ; but 
this one thing clung to Jane's mind with a sullen persistency. 



A STORM. 211 

The young man had seen through her — her lodger distrusted 
her. 

Jane was conscious of this : that she had been guilty of 
double-dealing, that she had received a bribe for carrying out 
a certain purpose, that she had given the cunning of a clever 
brain to helping forward the commission of what she knew to 
be a crime. And this she had done, not for the money's sake, 
though Jane was fond of gold, but for the gratification of a 
hatred which was daily strengthening in her narrow mind. 
Jane had not many passions or affections; she had, as she 
thought, outlived the gentler ones, she had grown hard in a 
hard school ; and this hatred had taken all the deeper root. 
It grew, in fact, till it absorbed her, and drowned in its turbid 
depths every other emotion. 

She had long disliked her mistress — at first she could 
scarcely have told why. Perhaps it was Mrs. Gr, y's peculiar 
beauty and grace and the quiet dignity of her manner that 
made her so utterly antipathetic to her landlady. Little na- 
tures are apt to be jealous in a wild, unreasonable kin<l of 
way. Jane in the course of her life as a servant had come 
often into close contact with beauty, wealth, happiness, but 
none of these had affected her so strongly as the constant 
presence of this patient lady, who, she had taught herself to 
believe, was "no good," and yet whose quiet dignity and calm 
superiority made her universally respected and admired. 

Another element went to the forming of this deadly hatred. 
Her mistress was kind and gentle, but she never descended to 
Jane's level. The landlady might think as she would of her 
lodger's antecedents; there remained in spite of all as im- 
measurable a distance between them as had ever separated 
Jane Rodgers the servant from her haughtiest mistress. It 
was a something that daily fretted the woman's spirit — in a 
great measure, it may be, because it was incomprehensible. 

Jane was no communist or republican; the barriers of rank 
and fashion she could thoroughly understand. She had never 
bruised herself by attempting to beat against those iron bars. 
" Providence," she would piously remark to such of her equals 
a3 complained in her presence of inequality of lots — " Provi- 
dence had ordained as there should be rich and poor, high 
and low, which, as far as she could see, was judicious, for what 



212 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

would a servant do as a fine lady, and how could a fine lady 
do for herself?" 

But in the refinement that independently of circumstances 
and surroundings raises one above another, Jane could not 
see the hand of Providence so directly. 

Mrs, Grey seemed to have no particular position in the 
world, few people knew her, her clothes were often shabbier 
than Jane's. The landlady believed, and probably with rea- 
son, that she could have bought up her mistress's possessions 
with very little trouble. Where, then, was the difference 
between them ? Why was it that Jane had instinctively stood 
in the presence of her lodger, and treated her (until the last 
access of rage and hatred) with the same respect as she had 
treated mistresses who were high in the scale of the world's 
honor ? She could not understand it, and it galled her proud 
spirit till dark, brooding evil took full possession of her. 

This it was that had prompted her strange behavior in Mrs. 
Grey's absence. This it was that had caused her last and 
basest treachery. 

Jane had not, indeed, objected to the bribe, which had 
been tolerably large, but for the money's sake she would not 
have compromised herself. It was against Jane's principles. 
That she had gone through life tolerably clean-handed was 
chiefly owing to this. She had a mind capable of looking 
beyond the paltry bribe to the consequences involved in its 
reception. Anxiety of mind, care, terror of discovery, — she 
was given to comparing the relative value of these with that 
of the gold which would buy her concurrence in some under- 
hand scheme, and generally the decision was against the gold. 
But this time the danger of discovery was not great and the 
service rendered was small, scarcely amounting, so Jane 
reasoned with herself, to complicity in the deed. The money 
was acceptable and the revenge was sweet. 

It was very bewildering to Jane's mind and rather de- 
structive to her peace that as soon as ever the affair had oc- 
cured Mrs. Grey's friends came flocking to the place. First 
the lawyer ; but Jane was shrewd enough to see that he was not 
dangerous to her — rather, perhaps, to her mistress. After 
him, however, came the young Arthur, a man of very differ- 
ftnt type, and even before the overheard conversation Jane 



WHAT THE STORM BROUGHT. 213 

liaJ caught the- young man watching her very closely. She 
knew then that Margaret had told her troubles to a sympa- 
thizing listener, who was ready to devote himself to her ser- 
vice. She had a shrewd suspicion, too, that he would succeed 
in unearthing the mystery. And then her share in the al^ 
duction of the child might very possibly come to light. 

Her suspicions were confirmed by the few decided words in 
which Arthur alluded to his fears for Margaret and his earn- 
est desire that she should choose another residence. If they 
had seen the white look of fear and hatred which overspread 
the face of the listener, Margaret would probably have come to 
a very different decision. Jane's hatred had been great before. 
The penetration of the young man and the quiet acquiescence 
of her lodger increased it tenfold ; while joined to these was a 
sudden fear lest the salutary advice should be followed, lest 
Mrs. Grey should leave the house and the schemes of her 
young protector be carried on wholly out of her reach. 

Her fears were set at rest, but Margaret's calm answer in- 
flamed her once more. She read in it a quiet contempt at the 
bare idea of Jane being able to inflict any kind of annoyance 
upon her, with the exception of a stupid insolence. 

The woman crept from the door with the spirit of evil in 
1- er heart. She spent the next day brooding. 



CHAPTER XVII. 
WHAT THE STORM BROUGHT. 

I paid that T was dying. God is good : 
The lieavens grow darker as they grow the purer ; 
And both as we do near them ; so near death 
The soul grows darker and diviner hourly. 

The storm that had looked so wild among the streets and 
terraces of London broke in absolute fury over the northern 
ocean. The waves were lashed into violence under the fierce 
rushing of the winds, the great yellow clouds sent out vivid 
flashes that lit up the desolate scene, and ever and anon came 
the sullen crash of thunder through the darkness. 



214 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

The sun had gone down, the twilight had' passed into the 
storm-darkness ; it was about the time when AdSle and Ar- 
thur had been discussing the mental effects produced by tem- 
pest in the closely-curtained library, and sending out the warm 
compassion of their young souls to the world's great array of 
mourners. Margaret Grey sat beside her parlor-window look- 
ing out upon the storm. She looked very desolate in the 
silent, half-dark room, with its white curtains and ghostly 
holland draperies. Her hands were folded listlessly, her eyes 
were full of sadness. She had been much happier and far 
more hopeful since Arthur's visit, but on this evening, she 
could not have told why, the deep depression from which his 
presence and her own strenuous exertions had aroused her 
seemed to be settling down upon her once more. 

She felt so absolutely alone and uncared-for in the dreary 
tumult upon which she gazed that she began to feel as if it 
were impossible for anything but this to be her lot. Every 
sweet human tie that had once rejoiced her had been loosened, 
and she told herself she only was to blame, and therefore they 
might never, never be reknit. It was a curse upon her, and 
she could not believe it would be removed. 

She bowed her head upon her hands as she thought of the 
past — as she felt within herself the rich, boundless capabil- 
ities of loving — as she looked out upon her own desolation. 

And while she was brooding the darkness gathered. In 
the distance the white foam of the waves gleamed through it, 
and from time to time it was disturbed by the lightning ; but 
for that it was deep indeed. A dark night has terrors for 
the imaginative : Margaret looked out with a shudder. 

" It was into such a darkness that he went out," she mur- 
mured. " Oh, my darling ! my darling !" 

And then she turned, and began to feel with a certain 
creeping sense of uneasiness that the house was very stilL 
She drew down the blind with a hasty impulse. The outside 
world made her think too painfully of that wanderer in his 
first desolation. Alas ! he would have recovered from that — 
perhaps he was even rejoicing in his liberty. The thought 
was too bitter. She felt her overstrained mind must have 
relief. A book might bring it, so she rose to ring for lights. 

But before she could reach tbe bell-handle the door opened 



WHAT THE STOBM BROUGHT. 215 

slowly, stealthily, as if ashamed of its own creaking, and a 
figure that in the half darkness she did not recognize crossed 
to the window, and taking a seat gazed at her across the in- 
terval of shadow. There was something defiant in the action, 
and for a moment Margaret was frightened. Who was this 
that had dared to intrude upon her ? 

But she and her landlady were alone in the house. Her 
fears, she told herself, were puerile ; crossing the dark room, 
she looked her intruder in the face. By the faint light which 
still struggled through the window-blind she recognized Jane 
Rodgers. But could she be right? Was not this rather a 
distorted creature of her own imagination that had taken the 
landlady's face and features to mock her ? This being was 
very unlike the quiet and eminently respectable landlady, for 
the face was so livid that it seemed to gleam out of the dark- 
ness, the eyes were wild and lurid, and the lips and tongue 
seemed to be moving convulsively, as though the woman were 
agitated with burning thirst. 

Margaret started back in momentary alarm ; but she was 
naturally brave — she would assure herself that this was no 
dream conjured up by a diseased imagination, but actual, 
living flesh and blood. She put her hand on her landlady's 
shoulder. " Jane," she said, " is this you ? My good woman, 
what is wrong ? Has the storm alarmed you ?" 

Her touch was flung ofi" with such violence that she stag- 
gered and nearly fell, for the torrent of this woman's wrath and 
hatred had been so long suppressed that now no bounds would 
hold it. " Leave me alone !" she cried. " How dare you put a 
finger on me ? No," with a wild laugh as Margaret retreated 
quietly to the door. She thought the woman was mad, and 
so Jane was in a sense. " I've turned the key. We're alone 
together, at last, my fine lady ; you shall hear me out ; you 

shall know what's in my power — what I'll do, by ! It's 

a fine night, dark as pitch ; a body could be easily put out of 
the way — made quiet and then tossed out there !" 

She lifted the blind, and even as she did so came a lurid 
flash. It showed the outside tumult, the black, restless waves, 
seeming in their unrest to hunger for a victim, and for one 
moment it showed in bold relief what was more dreadfiil still, 
a dark human face distorted with hideous passion. The eyes 



216 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

of the landlady seemed to be starting from their sockets, her 
strong sinewy hands were clenched, her body was stooping 
forward ; the attitude was that of a cat about to spring upon 
its prey. Margaret saw and shrank back in sudden terror, 
the sight was so repulsive. But she recovered herself They 
\7ere woman to woman. Why should she fear ? Again she 
touched the landlady on the shoulder. " Jane," she said in a 
low voice that trembled in spite of her strong effort to be 
calm, " you must be mad or dreaming. What does all this 
mean ?" 

" It means ." The woman hissed one word into her 

ear, and then for the first time Margaret realized her position. 
She had not much physical strength, for the severe mental 
struggles through which she had been passing had slowly but 
surely sapped at the springs of her life. Alone ! She had 
thought of it with sadness only a few moments since ; now 
she felt herself alone, and in the power of a hatred rendered 
strong and brutal by human passion. In the presence of the 
dark reality her small remnant of strength deserted her. She 
felt weak and faint with sheer terror of what might be before 
her. 

In one moment it all seemed to flash upon her — the horror, 
the mystery, the sickening details. She closed her eyes and 
instinctively cried out for help to the one Presence that alone 
was near her in this awful moment. The lightning flashed in 
again upon the strange scene. It showed her kneeling, with 
clasped hands and calm face and eyes raised up to heaven. 

Heaven! God! We think of them little in our hours of 
peace and gladness, but in the storm-sounds, in the terrors of 
darkness, in physical weakness brought home to our souls, 
perhaps we are all somewhat alike. Weak women and strong, 
self-dependent men instinctively look up, involuntarily call on 
the awful name. How often, how often, the Name has proved 
a Power! Even in this case it seemed for a moment 
effectual. 

The woman with the deadly purpose in her eyes shrank 
back, awed by the secret witness evoked by prayer. But 
darkness hid the calm, resolute face, and the cruel heart was 
steeled once more. " What's the use of praying ?" she cried 
in a transport of furyj "them as prays should practice — 



WHAT THE STORM BBOUOHT. 217 

that's my creed ; and, look you here ! if there's a heaven and 
hell, as the pious says, you've killed my soul, for I was never 
wicked till you came our way ; and curse you for it, I say, 
with your milk-white face and your smooth ways and your 
pride ! But I'll do for you yet. I didn't intend it," she con- 
tinued, her voice rising almost to a shriek, " leastways, not 
to-night; but the look of you, the feel of you, makes me 
mad." She had seized Margaret's delicate wrists and was 
holding them in a vice-like grasp as she glared into her eyes. 
" Your fine young gentleman suspects me — you haven't that 
confidence. I was insolent, was I? but not nothing to be 
afraid of. Perhaps you'll cry another cry now, if I let you 
cry at all." 

She laughed a savage laugh that made Margaret shiver, 
but she had not lost all her power ; with a sudden wrench she 
threw ofi' the woman's grasp, and springing to the window 
unloosened and opened it. It was on the ground floor, but 
even a fall would have been better than this life-and-death 
struggle in the darkness. The cool, keen night-air was re- 
freshing. She drew a long breath and threw herself forward. 
It was in vain. 

Jane had recovered from the momentary paralysis which 
Margaret's unexpected efibrt had caused her. She caught 
her round the waist, and dragging her back into the room 
threw her down upon the ground. 

Then for a moment Margaret's consciousness deserted her. 
With a deep sigh she closed her eyes, but not even her weak- 
ness would come to her relief. Horror kept her senses alert. 
She opened her eyes to feel the cool night-air bathing her 
face, and to see the face of her enemy very close to her own. 

Jane's knees were on Margaret's chest, her hand was up- 
lifted to strike, but her victim opened her eyes and the hand 
fell. " You're not quite gone," she said — " only a sham, like 
t'other night, No more shams for you, fine lady ; but, listen ' 
a big one for me, and it'll help your last moments to hear it. 
You've destroyed yourself is to be my story to-morrow when 
the neighbors inquire — went out in the storm unbeknown to 
me — wasn't heard of no more," 

Margaret closed her eyes again, but no cry for mercy cara<> 
from her lips. 



218 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Jane Rjdgers waited. It would have been a triumph, to 
have heard the passionate prayers for which she had prepared 
herself to answer with mocking reference to former times. 
She stooped down. "Have you nothing to say?" she asked. 

Still not a word, only the dark eyes opened, and the pure 
spirit seemed to look out calmly on the passionate, sin-stained 
mortal. 

And still Jane waited. It seemed almost as if an invisible 
power had held back her hand. 

In the moment given her Margaret was preparing to die. 
She looked her position calmly in the face. She could not 
struggle. All her strength seemed to have gone out of her 
in that last effort. Nothing was left but submission. It was 
hard. For the sake of others, for the sake of the future which 
was beginning to take fairer colors, she would have wished to 
live ; and then in this kind of death there was something so 
revolting. To be put out of sight, to be cast like a dog into 
the waters, to leave behind her as a memory either the stain 
of self-destruction or the horrible nine days' wonder of a 
sickening murder. But would not words be thrown away? 
and strength she had none. 

She could only pray with passionate intensity for help. 
With the prayer came calmness, and after it a strange thought 
that utterly absorbed her. 

For the moment Margaret Grey forgot herself, fo.-got even 
the horror of her situation. She looked up into the haggard, 
desperate face bending over her, and her very soul was filled 
with a deep, boundless pity. Her thought was no more to 
save herself; it was to save this woman from the commission 
of a crime. A sudden sense of responsibility seemed to crush 
her down, a feeling that if this woman's soul were lost she 
would be to blame. It was a madness, a noble madness, but 
it gave her strength. 

With an irresistible force she threw off the knees that were 
pressing out her life, and rising to her feet looked in her turn 
into the eyes of her bitter foe — a look that so astonished Jane 
as to render her for the moment helpless, for she saw her mis- 
tress's face as the face of an angel. Through the semi-dark- 
ness of the room those kind, sad eyes looked into hers, and 
■eemed to draw away half her venom. 



WHAT THE STOBM BROUGHT. 219 

Then IMargaret spoke in a soft, low tone that contrasted 
strangely with the fierce, savage words to which she had been 
forced to listen : " Poor foolish woman I why do you hate me 

BO?" 

Her words fell clear and unanswered in the silence. She 
vent on gently, "If I have suspected you wrongfully, if I 
have caused you any kind of evil, I am heartily sorry ; but 
oh, for your oAvn sake, for the sake of all you hold dear, 
pause now before you do a deed that can never, through all 
eternity, be undone." 

She paused a moment to gather strength : " I did not in- 
tend to ask you to spare me, but as I lay there helpless it 
came into my mind that if I suffered this deed to be done 
your blood-guiltiness would be on my head. You cannot 
hurt me much," she continued with a noble truthfulness, " for 
what is death ? I have looked it in the face more than once 
• — a bitter pang, no doubt, but a short one. I plead not for 
my sake, but for yours — for your poor soul, which is perish- 
ing this night. In God's name I beseech you to spare it. Be 
wise in time, or at least — for the long night is before us — take 
an hour to consider. I will not escape — I will sit here in 
your sight. You were mad for the moment — these feelings 
of hatred had taken possession of you — God would not suf- 
fer—" She broke off suddenly, "Hark ! what is that?" 

"A knocking at the gate," said Jane, turning very pale. 
"Now's your time. You have gained time with your false 
tongue. I sha'n't be able to escape. You will have your re- 
venge." 

"Stop," said Margaret, holding her back, and there was 
heavenly forgiveness in her face. " Believe that I wish you 
no ill. Look at me, Jane. Do you see hatred or vengeance 
in my face ? Forget these few awful moments. I will forgive, 
and we shall both thank God for ever for having saved as 
from an unspeakable horror. This is His hand ; go down )n 
your knees and thank Him." 

"It is — it is!" said Jane, shivering, for her superstitious 
nature had been touched by the strange coincidence. Gov- 
erned by a stronger will than her own, she knelt, while the 
tears rained down her face. 

But tlie knocking began to grow desperate. 



220 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

" You had better go," said Margaret quietly ; " our visitof 
is impatient." 

Obedient as a child, the woman who but a few moments be- 
fore had been foaming with rage got up and went out. The 
cause of the noise was soon explained. A chaise was standing 
at the gate, the sound of whose approach had been unheard in 
the tumult of the night : an elderly woman had dismounted. 

" Sae ye're not all deed and buried," she said briskly as the 
landlady showed her scared face at the gate. " I was rating 
the laddie here for misguiding o' an auld wife that micht hae 
bin his mither, for, thinks I to myself, sure and certain there's 
not a soul within, and a awfu' nicht it is to keep a body out- 
side " — the old woman spoke quite reproachfully — " but noo 
I think on't," she continued, "ye're not living here your lane. 
One Mrs. Grey is lodgin' wi' you, for, as I tak it, you're the 
landleddy." 

Jane was scarcely able to speak, but as silence gives consent 
the old woman proceeded to pay the boy, to gather up her 
parcels and to walk rapidly along the garden-path. 

" An' here is Mrs, Grey her ainsel', as I cauna doobt," she 
continued cheerfully, for Margaret had lighted the hall-lamp 
and was standing underneath it. 

The old Scotchwoman looked round her scrutinizingly as 
she passed into the lighted hall. There was a certain appear- 
ance of repressed excitement about both Margaret and the 
landlady that did not escape her shrewd old eyes. " Bless 
me, how wild they look !" was her mental ejaculation, but she 
refrained from all expression of her feelings. 

Mrs. Foster understood her manners. She prided herself 
on this, that she knew a lady the moment she set her eyas 
upon her. Whatever Mrs. Grey might turn out to be, old 
Martha was satisfied at once that she was a lady, and she 
acted accordingly. She dropped a little old-fashioned curtsey, 
and the excitement of her first arrival having in a measure 
passed, brought forward her best English to do honor to the 
occasion : 

"You'll be astonished, madam, and with reason, to see an 
old woman drop down from the skies, as we may say, and at 
this hour of the night, too. But I've brought my credentials 
with me, and, like mony anither, my young gentlemao likes 



WHAT THE STORM BROUGHT. 221 

t(i do everything in a hurry. Here's the letter which will ex- 
plain a sight better than I can." 

" Come in, come in," said Margaret ; then to Jane, who was 
looking at her in a strange scrutinizing manner, " Bring the 
candles into the parlor, Jane ; then come in and consider how 
we are to provide for our guest. I am sure she is heartily 
welcome, for I see Mr. Forrest has sent her." 

Margaret's words had the desired effect. They set Jane's 
mind at rest. She saw it was not her mistress's intention to 
make any revelation about the scene that had preceded the 
old woman's arrival. Bewildered and dazed, she found her 
way to the kitchen, mechanically did as she was told, and re- 
turned to the parlor to find the old woman quietly divesting 
herself of bonnet and shawl and looking round with the air 
of one who had taken possession. 

Old Martha seemed in fact to be the only capable person in 
the house, for Margaret had fallen back on the sofa white and 
trembling. Up to the moment of the old woman's arrival she 
had been sustained by her overpowering excitement. In the 
pleasant, warm security she began to feel a certain reaction, a 
sudden collapse of power. 

And the landlady, notwithstanding her vigorous efforts to 
recover her self-possession, looked rather scared. It was such 
a contrast — from the horror and darkness to the light and 
pleasant security. But our life is strange ; the common 
things seize and silence the dramatic crises, and we drop 
naturally into the old channels. The first access of alarm 
over, Jane Rodgers put on her apron, smoothed back her 
hair and set about the common tasks of relighting tlie kitchen 
fire, preparing tea and airing sheets for the old woman's bed, 
just as if that awful night's experience had never been. And 
Margaret swallowed a glass of wine, fought down her longing 
for tears, and found herself in a few moments looking with 
tranquil pleasure at her old treasures, the rings and bracelets 
which Martha Foster had returned, and listening quietly to 
the old woman's lively description of Mr. Arthur's babyhood 
and early youth. Martha never imagined this could be any- 
thing but interesting, and to have begun so soon on her pet 
subject was a high mark of the old woman's favor. 

Margaret believed she had conquered Jane Rodgers's fierce 



222 CHASTE AS ICE, FURE AS SNOW. 

hatred — for the moment at least — yet it was with a feeling of 
devout thankfulness that she noticed how, of her own accord, 
the landlady had arranged for Martha Foster to sleep in the 
little closet which opened from her bedroom. 

They all retired early, and the stormy evening closed in 
peace. 



CHAPTER XVIIl. 
LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 

Oh, trust me, never fell 
By love a spirit or earthly or of heaven : 
Bather by love they are regenerate. 
Love is the happy privilege of mind — 
' Love is the reason of all living things. 

Margaret's work was not over. In that transcendent 
moment when death was staring her in the face she had made 
a certain resolution, and the security that followed the danger 
did not make her shrink from carrying it out. Strange but 
true ; the words in which she had striven with the desperate 
spirit of evil that had taken possession of Jane Rodgers 
actually represented her state of mind at the time. Margaret 
had thrown herself out of herself. With the renovating 
power of the intensest pity she had looked into the troubled 
spirit which was revealing itself in all its unutterable depths 
of misery, and she had resolved to save It even from itself. 
Hence it was that instead of the abject cries self-pity would 
have drawn from the proudest heart at this supreme crisis, 
her words had been calm, self-contained, spoken with an 
authority which to the half-crazed brain of the desperate 
woman was so strange as to seem mysterious and supernatural. 

This it was that had saved Margaret at least from severe 
bodily harm. In sheer astonishment the woman's hand had 
been stayed, and before the wicked impulse could return help 
was at the door. The help had come so strangely that Jane's 
superstitious fears were confirmed. She began to think her 
mistress possessed some secret power. The idea cowed her. 
She became abject in her dread. She looked upon the woman 



LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 223 

ehe had injured as one surrounded by invisible protectors, 
ready at a moment's notice to come to her assistance. 

Even on that first evening Margaret had read a part at 
least of this in her landlady's face. The sullen frown did not 
leave Jane's brow, but the defiance had gone. It was a 
change for the better, yet Margaret was not satisfied; she 
wanted more than this. She had felt on that night like one 
in actual contact with the wild powers of darkness, struggling 
at the very mouth of the bottomless pit for a lost soul ; and 
the impression continued. With the perseverance of a dom- 
inant idea that haunts the mind it followed her through her 
sleep. She seemed to hear the despairing cries of a dying 
soul ; she seemed to see the mocking smiles of fiends who 
were waiting, like the vultures of the sandy wastes, till the 
last convulsive throes should be over to claim the lost thing 
for their own ; she seemed to feel the last speechless agony, 
the outer darkness of despair. 

Once she awoke, for the oppression was choking her, and 
when the waking reality of the dream came back in all its 
fulness she rose and knelt by her bed. " Thou hast saved me, 
my God," she prayed ; " give me the power of saving, of help- 
ing to salvation, this wandering spirit." After that she was 
calmer ; she was able to lie and watch, as she scarcely cared 
to sleep again, for the breaking of the morning, and to think 
and plan about the best method of carrying out her noble 
work. 

" Love is the antidote of hatred," thought Margaret ; " I 
will teach this woman to love, and perhaps love may be a 
ladder of life to her soul." 

The morning broke slowly. She threw open her window 
and watched how it spread itself over sea and sky. Then 
there was a stir in the village. Windows and doors were 
opened, carts began to move heavily in the streets, and the 
Bteps of passing laborers could be distinctly heard. 

Margaret bowed her head upon her hand. " They come 
from homes," she murmured ; " they will go back to them 
to-night. My home is not." 

But a rosy light spread itself over the sea ; the waves that 
were rolling steadily in to the shore caught on their rebound 
a glow as of sapphire. It was the sun, and the sun brought 



224 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

hope. Then came movement in the house ; it showed that 
Jane was astir. Margaret's mind went back to its planning. 
After a few moments' thought she wrapped her dressing-gown 
round her and crept on tip-toe to the door of the room where 
Martha Foster slept. The old woman was sleeping the sleep 
of the righteous. Margaret closed the door of communica- 
tior . and then she rang the bell. Before her landlady could 
harden her heart against her Margaret wished to make some 
impression. While the scene of the past night was still 
fresh in her mind she might be more ready to hear the words 
of love and forgiveness Margaret had prepared herself to 
utter. 

Some minutes passed before Jane appeared. She was at a 
loss to imagine what the object of her mistress could be. 
Jane had awoke that morning like one who has been under 
the power of a fearful nightmare. She could scarcely believe 
at first that she was herself, and that she was actually free 
from crime. But when she did, she felt for the first time in 
her life an emotion of earnest thankfulness to the Power, 
risible or invisible, which had withheld her hand. 

For Jane had always been a prudent woman. As a gen- 
eral rule her passions had been kept in check by some stronger 
motive-power. Cupidity, self-love, interest, a strong desire for 
that paradise of a certain class, respectability and independ- 
ence, keen common sense that showed the folly of a momen- 
tary gratification of passion, followed by a life-long repent- 
ance, — ^these had hitherto kept her from all the grosser forms 
of sin. 

But this time they had all been too weak. The hatred had 
been nourished in her heart till it had grown into a master- 
passion ; fear of her treachery being discovered, indignation 
and disgust at the new happiness that seemed to be opening 
out before the object of her hatred, had added their fearful 
impulse to her heated soul, and then came the storm, the 
darkness, the opportunity. 

In the cool clear morning Jane shuddered. If she had 
carried out her dark purpose, what would she have been that 
morning? In all probability a hunted criminal. She was 
thankful for her escape, but not yet truly penitent for the sin. 
The soul from which one baffled demon has been banished is 



LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 225 

ready for the seven if it be not occupied and filled with some 
better guest. 

Jane obeyed Margaret's call after a few moments' delay. 
She knocked at the bedroom door, opened it and stood on the 
threshold, a quiet, respectable-looking person, but there was 
a sullen frown on her brow. " Did you please to want any- 
thing, ma'am?" she asked. Her broom was in her hand — a 
bint, as it were, that she was in no mood to be delayed. 

"Only to speak to you, Jane," said Margaret. "Come 
here ; Mrs. Foster seems to be fast asleep and I have shut the 
door, or if you like I can speak to you in the next room, but 
we may not have so good an opportunity again." 

Jane looked down : " What might you wish to say to me, 
ma'am ?" 

There was a forced unconcern in her manner that was not 
particularly encouraging, but Margaret would not despair. 
She held out her hand with a smile : " I fear you distrust me, 
Jane. Why," she continued in a tone of such deep sadness 
that the landlady's heart, in spite of herself, was touched — 
" why will you persist in being my enemy ? God is my wit- 
ness that I would do you good." 

" You ain't got nothing to do with me," said Jane, in a 
stifled voice. " If I choose to go to the bad, what's that to 
you or anybody else ? I won't try to hurt you again, if that's 
what you want to know, and only that I was mad I wouldn't 
have done it last night." 

" I know you were mad — I felt it then ; and then I resolved 
that I would save you from yourself You are mistaken, my 
poor woman ; it is much, very much, to me, whether, as you 
express it, you go to the bad. Jane, I believe it has been 
given to me to save you, and, God helping me, I will do it." 

She spoke with a quiet determination that had marvellous 
power. Her dream was with her once more. She seemed to 
see the wild, unholy tumult ; she seemed to be holding, cling- 
ing to the wjetched life that death in death was swallowing 
up. 

And Jane watched her with a curious emotion, very strange 
and utterly incomprehensible to herself. 

The hard, selfish side of life had chiefly presented itself to 
the landlady, both as regarded her own nature and the natuifl 

15 



226 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

of tliose with whom she had come into contact. This divine 
gelf-forgetftilness, this pure love of the erring even because 
of its miserable errors, was something so new as to be a kind 
of revelation to her soul. A good she had conceived impos- 
sible seemed to be opening itself out as not only possible, but 
real. And the revelation had a renovating power. There 
came over her a remembrance of the time when she had beet 
"joyful and free from blame." 

It brought a sudden softness to her heart. But she would 
not give way to it. She seized her broom and half turned, 
so as to hide her face from Margaret's gaze. " What's the 
use of talking ?" she said in a stifled voice ; " talking won't 
make me no better. I hated you ; why can't you hate me 
and be done with it ?" 

" Because I do not hate you, Jane ; because, on the con- 
trary, my soul is filled with earnest longing for your good. It 
came to me here in last night's darkness as I thought of your 
words that perhaps I had given some cause for these feelings 
of yours. I have wrapped myself up in my own sorrows and 
have neglected to enter with a woman's sympathy into your 
troubles and joys. For — I know it — we must not and cannot 
live to ourselves. Selfishness brings its own punishment." 

Jane looked down : " I have no troubles in particular, not 
to interest anybody but — " 

It had come over her in an irresistible flood, the remem- 
brance of her 07ie happy time. Ah ! it is a great fact, mys- 
terious but true — misery and hopeless wretchedness make 
half the criminals that fill our jails, that prowl undetected 
abuut our streets. To the happy goodness is easy. 

Jane broke down suddenly, and throwing herself on her 
knees buried her face in the bed-clothes : " If he had been 
true to me I'd have been another woman. Oh ! God was 
cruel. I was getting soft when he was coming and going with 
his pleasant ways : it was too short — " Her voice was choked 
with sobs. " I've been bad — bad from that day. I'm getting 
worse, and God has left me. What'll I do ? what'll I do ?" 

Margaret's eyes filled with tears. She stooped down . and 
drawing cue of the woman's reluctant hands from the hidden 
fiace, held it in her own. 

" I thought so," she said gently, as if speaking to herself* 



LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 227 

»* there is always a background," Then to the weeping 
woman : " Think of it — you and I, my poor Jane, living here 
together, and shutting up our troubles in our own hearts. No 
wonder we grew hard and selfish. But it is over, is it not? 
You will help me to bear, and I will teach you to love. This 
is what you want to take you out of yourself. Look up, 
Jane ; be of good courage." 

But she only wept the more bitterly. " I can't," she said ; 
" my heart is like stone." 

Margaret touched the heated face with cool, soft fingers. 
" What do these tears mean ?" she said gently. " They come 
from a heart that is becoming soft, if it is not soft already. 
Yes, I feel it too. We ought to be drawn out of ourselves. 
It is necessary to our happiness, to the healhty life of our 
Bouls. We grow morbid here in our solitude, with our thoughts 
toward inward. Since my darling little one was taken from 
me I too have been getting hard, Jane, or perhaps you and I 
might have understood each other better. But I thank God 
there is still time before us. You must let me into the secrets 
of your life. I will tell you what my sufierings have been, 
that there may be a true sympathy between us ; then we must 
look out from our own sorrows to the great world of suffering 
around us, and whether the future bring happiness or grief, it 
need not be altogether bereft of the treasures of love and 
sympathy." 

Jane listened, and her tears ceased. The words of Marga- 
ret were like oil on the troubled waters. They brought hope, 
they suggested possible comfort in a future that but a few 
moments before had been black with the utter blackness of 
despair. 

For humanity is not ever entirely bad. I think no living, 
breathing creature can be said to be hopelessly depraved. Sin, 
it is said, brings its own punishment, but the heaviest punish- 
lacnt sin can bring is the agonizing suffering it inflicts upon 
the soul. To be without hope of that beautiful attribute we 
call goodness would be misery unimaginable. 

Yet this was what Jane had been feeling that morning, and 
Margaret's words were like rays of light pointing to a possible 
redemption. " If I'd aught in the whole world to care about," 
she said, " I'd try and be better, but — " 



228 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

And then she stopped suddenly, for Jane was eminently 
practical, and an idea had flashed in upon her brain. 

" Have you no friends ?" asked Margaret. 

" I was thinking of the child," she said. 

"What child?" 

" He married my young sister," she answered, speaking 
alowly and with apparent difficulty, " and I hated him and 
her too ; but afterward I was glad, for he treated her bad. 
She died of a broken heart, they say. I never went nigh her, 
though she sent to beg me hard. That's three years agone 
next Whitsuntide. They had three or four children ; all died 
but one, a boy two years old when sister died. The father, 
he went off", no one knows where, and Willie — that's his 
name, they say — was put in the workhouse. I seen him 
once" — her voice grew broken again — " a fine little chap, like 
his father, and for a bit I felt inclined to bring him home, 
but that look of his made me hard and I came away." 

Margaret smiled a brooding, motherly smile : " God is good 
to you, Jane. He has not left you, as you said. He has 
given you little Willie. You must find him, and I think he 
will soon teach you to love." 

Jane had almost forgotten, in the new sweetness of speak- 
ing about her own feelings, to whom she had been addressing 
herself Margaret's words reminded her, and she was struck 
with a sudden sense of wonder, almost of awe. 

" Why do you care for me ?" she said in a low tone. " I've 
insulted you, I've acted wrong by you, I've tried to do you a 
mischief, and you listen to me, you take an interest that no- 
body ever did before, and you're not afraid of me, either," 
she continued confusedly. " There's them, I believe, as won't 
allow a hair of your head to fall. There must be a reason 
for it." 

" Only the reason that I told you, Jane. I want to save 
you from yourself; but Mrs. Foster is moving, and I don't 
wish our conversation to be overheard. I must hear more, 
about little Willie at another time." She held out her hand : 
" We are friends, are we not ?" 

Jane took it in an awkward, bewildered kind of way. 
Then, as she looked into her mistress's face and lead nothing 
but fcrgiveness there, her feelings became quite tco much for 



QOOD-NIQET AND GOOD-BYE. 229 

her. Throwing her apron over her head, she rushed out of 
the room cryijig like a little child. For the spirit of a little 
child had come into the hard heart. 

Her night had been dark as pitch, but already the fair 
dawning had gleamed out of the east. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-BYE. 

Behold in yon skies 
This wild night is passing away while I speak. 
Lo ! above us the day-spring beginning to break ! 
Something wakens within me, and warms to the beam. 
Is it hope that awakens ? 

" My bairn was unco' fashed aboot naething," said N^urse 
Martha to herself as she trotted about the cottage that day, 
trying to be very busy, but finding the process hard. 

The fact was this: Martha was considerably perplexed. 
She had been sent to Middlethorpe because her young master 
was anxious about this lady, in whom he had taken so deep 
an interest ; he had given the old woman as a reason for his 
anxiety that he had a strong suspicion about her landlady — 
the only other person in the house — believing her to be not 
only an untrustworthy person, but specially antagonistic to 
Mrs. Grey. 

Martha Foster had been requested to watch this person. 
She had watchetl, and what had she found out ? Only an al- 
most superfluous devotion on Jane Rodgers's part. 

Through the whole of that day Mrs. Grey had been suffer- 
ing from a kind of nervous depression. The thoughtful kind- 
ness of her attendant, which seemed to be offered as a tribute 
of affection, could not possibly be exceeded. Nothing was 
left for Martha to do. The landlady was even inclined to 
resent her ii\terference in any personal attendance on Mrs 
Grey. 

Her cold, quiet way of saying that, having known Mrs. 
Grey some time, it was only natural she should understand 



230 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

her ways better than a stranger, quite surprised the old 
woman. 

" Gang yer ain gait, my gude woman," she had answered. 
" I'm blithe to hear ye ken your wark and love yer bonny 
leddy sae weel." 

And then the landlady had looked at her with a kind of 
suspicion. Turning away, she had said in a low, constrained 
voice, " I should love her if any one should," 

What, perhaps, appeared still more mysterious to Nurse 
Martha was that Mrs. Grey seemed thoroughly to understand, 
and even to return, the feelings her landlady cherished for 
her. 

When she was at her worst — and in the early part of the 
day the pain in her head had been maddening — she could 
look up with a smile that was almost one of pleasure at the 
anxious, hard-featured face leaning over her, and receive 
with a sweet gratitude services which to the old woman, ex- 
perienced in nursing, seemed unnecessary and obtrusive. 

The landlady and her lodger appeared, in fact, to under- 
stand each other so perfectly that in the evening Mrs. Foster 
began to think herself de trop. Not that Mrs. Grey was any- 
thing but most kind and hospitable ; she was even too grateful 
for her obedience to her young gentleman's wishes ; but there 
was nothing for her to do. Jane kept her house in excellent 
order, and certainly, as far as Mrs. Grey's personal require- 
ments went, it did not seem as if she could have a more de- 
voted attendant. 

Mrs. Foster made up her mind to write to her young mas- 
ter and point out to him that her further presence would 
be unnecessary. But the next morning brought a change. 
There were two letters — one for Margaret and one for the old 
woman. Ad^le and Arthur had both written to announce 
the pleasing fact of their arrival. 

Margaret was in bed when her letters came, but the sight 
of them revived her. Her new champion was more active 
than the lawyer; he had news, Ad^le said, and he would 
bring it. For although the strange events of the last few 
days had had the effect of dividing Margaret's thoughta in a 
measure, yet this was still her one haunting desire — to see 
Maurice mce more, to let him at least hear of her, to have 



GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-BYE. 231 

him know that she was faithful to him in heart and con- 
science. Even the recovery of her child was second to that. 

" They will be here this evening," she said to old Martha, 
her face radiant with hope. "I Avish the evening were here." 

And the old woman wondered, thinking within herself that 
this eagerness was rather suspicious. 

But further remarks were stopped by a knock at the door. 
The landlady was there holding a fair-haired child by the 
hand. " Excuse me, ma'am," she said in that constrained tone 
which was always a puzzle to Martha ; " but I thought you 
might perhaps like to see my nephew." 

A light which was very like most unfeigned joy spread it- 
self over Margaret's face. "Bring him to me, Jane," she 
said softly. " There, put him up on the bed ; he won't be 
frightened." For the child was looking round bewildered at 
the strangeness of the scene. 

" He's not properly dressed," said the woman falteringly. 

Willie still wore the coarse workhouse suit, but his fair 
skin was as white as snow, and his yellow curls might have 
been the pride of any mother's heart. 

"Never mind his clothes. Give him to me for one mo- 
ment," said Margaret pleadingly. 

" If you really wish it, ma'am," said Jane, and her harsh 
voice was husky, but she stooped over the child, and no one 
knew that the cold, gray eyes were dim with tears. 

" So this is little Willie ?" said Margaret, passing her hand 
caressingly over his curls, while the child looked up with blue 
eyes of wonder. "Should you like to live with us, dear?" 
she said, in her soft motherly voice. 

The little boy had never taken bis eyes from her face. 
" Stay wid you," he replied decisively. 

"So you shall," said Mai'garet smiling; and then to his 
aunt, " I have some little things that will almost fit him, Jane. 
My child's frocks and petticoats two or three years agr» would 
F.uit Willie very well. We could alter them a little, and you 
might easily get a belt of some kind in the village to keep 
him from looking too much like a girl." 

"Thank you, ma'am," said Jane. She could not have 
spoken another word. 

"How pleasant!" said Margaret almost gleefully. "I 



232 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

wanted something to lielp me to pass the tiresome hours of 
this long day, and now my pretty little Willie has come, and 
we must help him into prettier clothes. Come, Mrs. Foster 
you know all about little ones. We must press you into thft 
service." 

" Willingly," said the old woman, producing a monstrous 
thimble from her pocket and popping it on her finger. And 
soon, united by the pleasant mutual interest, even awkward- 
ness was forgotten among the three women as they worked 
together with a will to clothe the little one suitably. They 
were all benefited : Martha had found an occupation, and she 
began dimly to understand Mrs. Grey's tactics ; Margaret was 
happy in seeing the fruits of her eflTorts come even more fully 
than she could have hoped ; and Jane felt all the hardness 
melting away from her heart. Mrs. Grey insisted she should 
join them in the afternoon to give her advice and assistance 
in the serious task of changing a girl's clothes into a boy's, 
but once or twice she was forced to make her escape. These 
ont-'iirsts of feeling, however, made her better. They taught 
her that she was not all bad. They showed her that in the 
heart she had thought past redemption were yet the seeds of 
good ; and unconsciously she rejoiced, blessing the kindly 
hand which out of misery and blackness had brought light, 
and even a measure of peace. 

The day passed rapidly in this pleasant work, but Willie 
had long been asleep before the welcome sound of wheels no- 
tified the approach of the travellei-s. 

The cottage and its surroundings certainly presented a 
more smiling appearance than on the preceding evening. 
Indeed, the contrast could not have been greater, for this was 
a kind of gala, and Jane Rodgers, in deference to the wishes 
of her mistress, determined nothing should be wanting that 
could produce a pleasing impression on the mind of the 
visitor. 

Jane was not, and never could be, a person of many words. 
She was naturally self-contained. The business of prepara- 
tion, from which she spared neither labor nor thought, was a 
kind of outlet for the feelings which could not find expression 
in words. If she could say nothing about her gratitude, she 
would prove it. 



GOOn^ilQHT AND GOOD-BYE. 233 

She knew Margaret's love of flowers, so she had gathered 
them together from every available corner. Roses, gerani- 
ums, fragrant heliotrope and mignonette were literally scat- 
tered in the rooms, which were full of an abundance of light. 
Some of Jane's cherished savings had been expended in 
plants that lined the hall and peeped from the windows. The 
cottage, indeed, looked very pleasant. The front door, thrown 
wide open, showed the lighted hall, and even allowed a 
glimpse of the small sitting-room, in which a substantial tea- 
table, spread with all kinds of dainties and decorated with 
Jane's wealth of plate and china, seemed to invite the en- 
trance of the weary travellers. Outside was the moon, throw- 
ing its white beams on the little plot of grass as it shone per- 
sistently through the branches of the stately cedar which 
flanked the little house on one side, while through the fra- 
grant limes on the other side came the glimmer of the starlit 
sea. 

" How pretty and quiet it all looks !" said Adfele to her 
cousin as they approached the cottage. "And that's the 
place, I feel sure ; it is just what I expected to see. Kow I 
know I shall get well soon." 

She leant back in the carriage with a little sigh, for Arthur 
was paying scarcely any attention to her words. She could 
see his face in the moonlight rapt and eager, and Adele felt 
almost sick for a moment with the longing that she might ever 
be able to call that look into his face. He turned to her at 
last. " It is all right," he said in a tone of intense relief; "I 
see her." 

Ad^le looked at him in simple wonder : " And whom did 
you expect to see, Arthur ?" 

Arthur turned away in slight confusion. He did not wish 
AdMe to know that the kind of uneasiness aroused by the 
storm had never left his mind — that he had been haunted by 
a certain inexplicable fear which nothing but the sight of 
Margaret herself could take away. He did not answer 
Adele's question, but proceeded to gather together the bags 
and parcels. 

The landlady was at the gate, with curtseyed welcome, 
ready for any consignment ; Margaret was on the steps of the 
front door; the old woman was behind her. Arthur for the. 



234 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW, 

first few moments had to be contented with her and with n 
nod and a smile from Margaret, whose warmest welcome was 
for Ad^le. " Come in, come in," she said, holding out both 
her hands ; " I thought it almost too good to be true when I 
read your letter this morning. But you have come, my poor, 
pale child, and we must take care of you and make you 
strong." She drew her into her own room : " Will you share 
this with me for the present, dear ? I can look after you bet- 
ter so." 

Adele was weak and tired. She could scarcely keep from 
tears as she threw her arms round Margaret's neck in her im- 
pulsive girlishness. " I am so glad to come," she said. "And 
oh ! I wanted to thank you !" Adele was thinking of the lit- 
tle scene in the library. 

" Thank me, dear !" replied Margaret, gently removing the 
young girl's hat as she spoke, and smoothing back her hair 
with a loving hand. "What shall I say to you, then, my 
faithful friend, who has believed in me through everything ?" 
She spoke lightly, but there was an undertone of deep emotion 
in her voice. " We shall have plenty to talk about, Adele, 
but this evening is to be given to rejoicing. I feel as if it 
were the opening of a new era in our lives — as if happiness, 
that capricious little deity, were hiding somewhere very near 
us. Come into the dining-room ; your cousin will become im- 
patient if we shut ourselves up too long." 

They went together into the little parlor ; and when Arthur 
saw Adele's glistening eyes and noted Margaret's loving little 
attentions to her guest, he felt sorely inclined once more to be 
jealous of his cousin ; but he did not allow this to be seen, 
and the evening passed away very happily. Harmony, that 
sweet, rare guest, seemed to reign in the little household. 
Every one was comfortable and happy. The undisguised 
satisfaction of the old woman, who began dimly to see 
through some of the mysteries that had been perplexing 
her; the happiness of Adele, wavering between smiles and 
tears, and taking a final refuge in the former ; the confidence 
and peace which seemed for the moment to have taken 
possession of Margaret ; Arthur's apparent contentment and 
overflowing merriment ; the quiet, respectfiil attentions of the 
landlady, — made a pleasing whole. 



QOOD-NIGHT AND OOOD-BYE. 235 

When the tea-things were cleared away, and Jane and 
Martha had finally retired for a gossip in the kitchen, Arthur 
got up and closed the door with great care. "Now, Mrs. 
Grey," he said, crossing over to where she sat looking out 
upon the moonlight, " I must really have it out with you. 
Are you a magician? Please give us the secret of your 
power ?" 

Margaret smiled : "A serious accusation, Sir Knight. 
Before committing myself in any way, I must hear upon 
what it is founded." 

" You have bewitched that wretched old landlady of yours. 
Why, I declare I never in my life saw the like of it. When 
I was last here I felt once or twice an insane desire to say 
something that would astonish her, I was so angry at the 
cool impertinence of her manner. Now, good gracious! no 
humble slavey could be more obsequious. She seems actu- 
ally affectionate — has the appearance of a devoted family 
servant. What have you done to arouse enthusiasm? 
Come, Mrs. Grey, confess!" 

"You must confess, first," answered Mrs. Grey, more 
gravely, it seemed, than the occasion warranted, " that such a 
thing is possible as to be mistaken, even when we think our 
observation has been of the keenest. You thought aud I 
thought that Jane Rodgers was wholly without a heart. I 
have discovered my mistake, aud found a way to her heart ; 
that is all the mystery. Thank you, a thousand times, for 
your kind thoughtfulness in sending Mrs. Foster, She is a 
charming old woman, and I was delighted to receive her, but 
my landlady and I are perfectly d'accord" 

Arthur shrugged his shoulders : " The mystery remains a 
mystery still, however ; even in her changed attitude your 
landlady is not a lively subject, to me especially, for she was 
the cause of a severe nightmare which kept me awake for 
hours only a very short time ago. AV^e'll change it. What I 
want to tell you is, that all being well I start for Moscow to- 
morrow night." 

Margaret clasped her hands and looked straight before her 
into the night. " Then you have heard of him ?" she said in 
a low voice. 

" I have heard something, dear Mrs. Grey." Arthur spuk? 



236 CHASTE AS WE, PURE AS SNOW. 

slowly, a certain sadness in his voice. It was as it should be . 
She loved her husband. He was nothing to her but an in- 
termediary, an instrument. "But do not raise your hopes too 
high," he continued. " It may be a long and tedious business. 
The last address given by Mr. Grey to his solicitor — who, I 
suppose you know, is not the same as yours — for letters and 
remittances, was that of an agent in Moscow. It is more than 
probable he has left that place himself. He seemed to wish 
to keep his ultimate destination a secret. I shall go to Mos- 
cow myself, and see this agent. He will probably be able to 
give me some information." 

" And what if he refuse ?" 

" I have a key. Russians are proverbially open to bribery 
and corruption." 

Margaret shivered a little : " It seems almost wrong, but I 
can't help it. Oh, if I only knew !" 

" We are working for him as well as for you," said Arthur 
quietly. He felt for the moment an insane inclination to do 
something desperate to this "him" for whom he was working 
so disinterestedly. For Margaret looked more beautiful than 
ever — at least he thought so as she sat there in the moonlight. 
The young man in his boyish enthusiasm could have fallen 
before her, and, holding her feet, have worshipped her. But 
she was so utterly unconscious. Adele meanwhile was lying 
on the sofa, listening and watching. She was trying to 
acquiesce in it all, trying to feel it right that her Arthur 
should take so deep an interest in another woman — for she 
knew his face well, she had read that sudden longing — she 
was trying to rejoice in Margaret's unconsciousness and her 
cousin's truth ; but the little aching was at her heart. Mar- 
garet had been, for the moment, absorbed in her own hopes 
and fears; as Arthur spoke the last words, however, she 
thought suddenly of Adele, and crossing to the sofa she sat 
down by her side. 

" Forgive me," she said softly. 

'Whatfor, Mrs. Grey?" 

Addle lifted her eyes to her friend's face, and Margaret saw 
that tears were not far off. 

" For sending your Arthur away on this wild search/' she 



GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-BYE. 237 

whispered. And Arthur, who had been standing at the win- 
dow gazing regretfully at the stars, and thinking with some 
d; scontent of life's contradictions, heard what she said. The 
■words were like a reproach. They made him think of Adele's 
self-forgetfulness ; they brought back to him the gentle scene 
of that stormy night. 

He turned resolutely from the window, and placing himself 
at the head of the sofa looked down upon his cousin's young 
fair face. She put out her hand with a smile ; he took it and 
held it in both his own. " She is not to be pitied, Mrs. Grey," 
he said lightly, " for this is all her own doing. I am only 
obeying, like a faithful knight, the orders of my liege lady. 
She filled my mind with her grand poetic ideas about doing 
good, and the rest of it ; she was always making me ashamed 
of my idle, aimless life ; then after we first met you, and she 
and I had made up our minds you had some great sorrow, she 
tried to bring me near to you ; and finally, the other day, 
when, as I told you, part of your history came to us, she sent 
me oflf to see you and find out the truth ; her orders were — 
Shall I repeat them, AdMe ?" 

He had succeeded in making her pale cheeks a " celestial 
rosy red." 

" You have said quite enough, dear, and too much. Have 
you discovered, Mrs. Grey, that my cousin is rather given to 
exaggeration ?" 

" Am I to believe all this is exaggeration ?" replied Mar- 
garet. And then she stooped and kissed the young girl's 
glowing face. " It is so very like the truth, Ad^le, that you 
must allow me the happiness of believing it. I shall take the 
services of your knight as your gift, and we shall watch to- 
gether for his safe return." 

"And remember, Addle," said Arthur impressively, "no 
flirting in my absence. Mrs. Grey, I shall make you respon- 
sible." 

Margaret laughed, and Addle answered gayly, for her 
bright spirits were rapidly returning, " Pray, sir, with what 
am I to flirt? As far as I can see already, there are no 
objects but stones and waves, and I fear that on them my 
fascinations would be thrown away. Mrs. Grey, have you 
many visitors in this place in the summer ?" 



238 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

"Principally nurses and babies; I fear it will be dull for 
you." 

" Dull !" said AdMe rapturously, " with you and the sea ! 
Why, this is the kind of dulness I have been craving for. 
If you only knew how delightful it is to escape from soir6ea 
and dinner-parties, and, more hateful still, afternoon callers ! 
But have you nothing else to tell Mrs. Grey, Arthur?" 

" Very little more, AdMe. I think I told you, Mrs. Grey, 
that we had traced your little girl to Southampton. We sent 
an agent there, and to-day my solicitor, Golding, had a tele- 
gram from him. Travellers answering exactly to our descrip- 
tion seem to have taken tickets to Paris. A sailor in one of 
the steam-packets remembers the child perfectly. He seems 
to have been struck with her beauty and the peculiar appear- 
ance of her companion. Paris is a large city, but I do not 
despair. Our man has his wits about him. We have com- 
municated with the French police too, and they are on the 
alert." 

Margaret sighed : " It is so difficult to be patient. I long 
to be off myself — my poor little darling ! — but I suppose it 
would be useless." 

" Worse than useless. You see we must proceed with gieat 
caution, and the man we suspect knows you. If he found out 
that you were personally on the track, he might take alarm 
and hide the child ; but our agent is unknown to him. By 
the bye, have you a picture or anything of the kind of either 
or of both of them, your little Laura and this foreigner ? If 
you have it may be useful," 

Margaret turned pale : " Wait a moment," she said. She 
went with her candle into the next room, and opening a drawer 
took from it a little old leather box. The key was on her 
watch-chain, but her hand trembled as she fitted it into the 
lock. The lid flew open, revealing a little velvet-lined case, 
which seemed to contain only two or three yellow envelopes, 
a withered flower and two likenesses. 

Sitting down, Margaret leant her head upon her hand, and 
two or three tears fell into the box. It was like the openiog 
of a grave. The likenesses were miniatures, delicately painted 
and set in gold. She took up the one that lay uppermost, aud 
looked at it through a mist of blinding tears. It was th« 



GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-BYE. 239 

portrait of a young girl ; the face was not so beautiful as that 
which looked down upon it, for the features were irregular, 
but the artist had hit happily upon its principal charm : it was 
in the eyes, which were dark and lustrous, and in the low, 
broad brow, from which the hair swept back in soft waving 
lines. 

•' My Laura," said Margaret half aloud, " forgive me — ha 
is unworthy." 

She laid down the miniature softly, and taking up the 
other looked at it silently, then turning it she touched a clasp 
at the back. Between the gold and the ivory lay a scrap of 
yellow paper. With a sudden impulse she crushed it in her 
hand, then smoothing it out carefully she read it by the can- 
dlelight. The words written were few and simple : "A Mddles. 
Marguerite et Laure, des amitife bien sinc^res — L'Estrange ;' 
but the strong man's hand that had traced them had trembled 
visibly, and as the woman whose dignity he had outraged, 
whose treasure, as she believed, he had stolen, looked on them 
that night, she remembered how her heart had warmed at the 
thought of those trembling fingers, and of what that trem- 
bling told. 

It was not this, however, that brought the softness to her 
face at that moment. Slowly she put down the paper and the 
opened miniature ; taking up the other, she held it against 
her heart. "Laura, my darling, forgive me!" she murmured; 
" I would have kept your treasure ; I cannot." With the 
other hand she took the piece of yellow paper and held it in 
the flames till it was consumed. Then replacing the first 
miniature, she shut and locked the box, put it back in its 
place with scrupulous care, and returned to AdSle and 
A rthur. 

There was no trace of agitation in Margaret's manner as 
she held out the miniature. 

"This was a common treasure of my cousin's and mine," 
she said with a sad smile. " I kept it only in obedience to 
her dying wishes, but I must find my child, and my poor 
Laura would forgive me." 

Arthur took it. "I think you are right," he said; "but 
about your child ?" 

" I have plenty of likenesses of her. You had better take 



240 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

the last ; it is wonderfully good : I have never seen a better 
photograph of a child. But, Arthur, before you send this 
miniature away, look at it carefully ; you may possibly come 
across them." 

"If I do — !" said Arthur from between his clenched 
teeth. 

Margaret laid her hand on his arm and looked at him 
anxiously : " You would do nothing rash, I hope, Arthur ; 
you know my history; you will be able to understand me 
when I say that for the sake of those old days, for my 
darling's memory, I would not have a hair of his head 
touched. I only want my child." 

" Be of good courage," said Arthur cheerily ; " if she is in 
the laud of the living, we shall find her, Mrs. Grey, and 
bring her, back to you in triumph. Thank you for these; 
they will be of great use to us. But now, ladies, it is getting 
late, and I shall have to be up early to-morrow, so I think I 
shall say good-night and good-bye. I have taken a room at 
the hotel, and as I find the first train to York leaves this — or 
rather the station — at half-past seven in the morning, it wUl 
be best to make my adieus to-night." 

" How soon shall we hear from you ?" said Ad^le, her lip 
trembling. 

" As soon as ever I can send a letter. I mean to travel 
night and day, therefore you must not be surprised if some 
days pass." . ^ 

Arthur was himself again; the thoughts of action had been 
invigorating. He shook hands with Margaret, kissed his 
cousin and then took his departure. They stood together un- 
der the moonbeams silent, for their hearts were full. He, 
with never a backward look, walked steadily away along the 
sounding sea. 



PART IV. 

AT WOEK WITH A WILL. 



CHAPTER I. 
LAURA'S TASK. 

O source of the holiest joys we inherit ! ^ 

O Sorrow, thou solemn, invisible spirit ! 
Ill fares it with man when through life's desert sand, 
Grown impatient too soon for the long-promised land, 
He turns from the worship of thee. 

It will long ago have been suspected that Margaret was 
wrong in her suspicion about her husband. Maurice Grey 
was not the person who had taken forcible possession of her 
child. Jane, in her new capacity of friend and protector (for 
the landlady had never done anything by halves ; hers was 
one of the world's strong natures — great in good as in evil), 
had opened out, with much shame and contrition, everything 
that concerned the transactions of that fatal day. 

Her story was this : In the course of the afternoon a gen- 
tleman had come up the garden-path, and proceeding to the 
back instead of to the front door, had requested to have a few 
words with her. He had begun by asking some trivial ques- 
tions about her mistress, and Jane said that as he asked them 
he looked at her in a searching kind of way. Apparently it 
did not take him many minutes to discover a certain amount 
of animus in her state of mind, and with the more readiness 
he revealed to her the object of his visit, persuading her that 
the service she was desired to render was very small. He 
was careful enough of her conscience not to tell her in so 
many words what he intended to do. All he asked her was 
to keep the fact of his having been there at all a secret as 
16 241 



242 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

long as possible, and if she should be questioned to give a 
certain description of his personal appearance. 

L'Estrange's revenge was perfect in its kind. In his angry 
bitterness he had determined to punish, and not only to pun- 
ish but to humiliate, the woman who had kept him at arm's 
length, who offended him by her dignity, who openly showed 
her contempt and loathing for his character ; and he had suc- 
ceeded. 

It was a bold scheme. Had it been deliberately planned, 
it might have been said to be diabolical in its clever wicked- 
ness ; but the fact, though strange, was true : it was not delib- 
erately planned. 

When L'Estrange found Margaret's address and followed 
her to Middlethorpe, he had not the vaguest idea of being in 
any way inimical to her. He had a passionate admiration 
for her beauty, and he believed her to be weak. Even the 
persistent way in which she had hidden herself from him had 
nurtured this idea in his mind. He thought she was afraid 
of him, and his aim was to conquer this fear, to persuade her 
by his specious reasoning that it was foolish and vain. 

He was a man who believed he understood women per- 
fectly, and as, unhappily for himself, his experience had been 
rather with the weak and erring than with the strong and 
pure, he had a rooted contempt for the female character. The 
height and purity of such a soul as Margaret's it was impos- 
sible for him to understand. 

It must not be supposed that L'Estrange was any monster 
of wickedness — he possessed, on the contrary, many good and 
noble traits — but his foreign training, the wandering life he 
had led and the strange notions he had picked up from mod- 
em sectaries had sorely impaired his moral sense. Truth was 
a mere name to him. To cling to it at an inconvenient sea- 
son he would have considered the supreme of folly. And yet 
he had a kind of honor of his own. To help the weak and 
defend the oppressed were articles in his strange creed. If 
Margaret had given herself up to him and followed him in 
his wanderings, he would have been faithful to her even unto 
death. 

In fact it was only tenderness for her, an instinctive feeling 
of unfitness, that had prevented him from marrying the warm* 



LAURA'S TASK. 243 

nearted, impulsive English girl who had given him her love 
BO unreservedly. 

Fortune had come to L'Estrange late in life, and unex- 
pectedly ; with it came the desire for the renewal of old ties. 
He did not look upon marriage as the insuperable barrier 
which it is happily considered here. He believed Margaret's 
marriage to have been one of convenience, not inclination, 
and that she would be rather thankful to him than the re- 
verse for interfering with its smooth tranquillity. Hence the 
scene at Rarasgate, which, in reliance on Maurice's impulsive 
character and his English repugnance to anything approach- 
ing a scandal, he had deliberately planned. 

It had succeeded beyond his hopes. Margaret was sepa- 
rated from her obnoxious husband, and L'Estrange believed 
that all he had to do was to go in and win. But for a long 
time she baffled him, and, as it has been seen, he misinter- 
preted her motives, attributing to superstitious fear of an un- 
known evil what really arose from disgust and horror. The 
success of L'Estrange with women had been so unfailing that 
he could not but have unbounded confidence in his own 
power of fascination. That the heart which had once been 
unreservedly his could have been transferred — and, above all, 
transferred to a husband — was a thing the Frenchman failed 
to realize. 

When he fell upon the traces he had been so long seeking, 
his determination was this — to enlighten the fair English- 
woman, to lead her out into what he looked upon as the true 
land of freedom, to destroy her foolish prejudices, and then 
when the education was fairly begun — what? The usual 
fools' paradise. 

It was in his surprise and indignation at finding himself 
utterly baffled, in the light, hateful to him, of her last strong 
words of contempt and loathing, that he hastily formed the 
scheme of cruel revenge which he carried out so cleverly. 
The idea was flashed in upon his brain by the very inspira- 
tion of madness. 

It will be well, perhaps, to return to that afternoon when, 
penetrating into Margaret's sanctuary, he carried away her 
treasure. 

The little Laura was unsuspecting. When L'Estrange en 



244 CHASTE AS ICE, FURE AS SNOW. 

tered the parlor he found her curled up, with her favorite 
story-book in her hand, in a corner of the sofa. She recog- 
nized him instantly as the stranger whose kindness to her on 
the sands had made her think he might be her lost father. 
His appearance confirmed her in the idea. Throwing down 
her bo<jk she ran to him and took his hand with confiding 
frankness. " Then you are my papa after all ?" she said. 

"Who told you I was your papa, Laura?" he asked gravely, 

"I told myself," replied the little one; "but come, poor 
mamma will be so pleased. I left her sitting on the sands, 
for she wanted to find you too, and now you've come here in- 
stead. Shall we go out and tell her ?" 

She did not wait for denial or assent, but dashed out of the 
room for her hat, while L'Estrange, rather astonished at his 
reception, sat and pondered for a few moments. 

"She has taught her child to love him, the man who 
wronged and doubted her," he thought with a growing won- 
der. " I must have been mistaken. Does she care for him, 
after all?" 

But the bare idea made him clench his teeth and knit his 
brows, till the reappearance of the child forced him to dis- 
simulate. L'Estrange was a consummate actor. He could 
be all things to all men, but I think that never in his life had 
he set himself a harder task than this. The child was so 
confiding, so simple in her trust. Not much dissimulation 
was necessary, however. The strong emotion he felt as he 
took up the little one and felt her small arms round his neck 
was very real of its kind. For, she was Margaret's ; here lay 
the spell. 

" Laura, my child !" he murmured, and his heart turned 
with sudden loathing from the deed he was doing. He felt 
inclined to put her down and to run from the house and from 
the place. 

But as he spoke she smiled. It was her mother's beautiful 
smile, such as had lit up her face in those bygone days when 
Margaret and he had been one in heart and mind. He hesi- 
tated no longer. " Laura," he said, putting her down and 
looking at her with a tenderness that was certainly not alto- 
gether put on, " I know where your mother is. She is not on 
the sands ; she has walked so far that it would tire her to 



LIUBA'S TASK. 245 

walk back. "We shall have to take a carriage to find her. 
You are not frightened, little one ? See, she has sent her 
scarf, that you may know I have come from her," 

" Is mamma ill ?" said Laura with a quivering lip. 

" No, only a little tired." 

" Well, then, let's go at once ! But how fiinny of mamma 
to walk so far ! I suppose she was talking and forgot." 

A carriage which L'Estrange had already hired was wait 
ing for them at some little distance from the house. They 
got into it and drove away. 

For the first half hour Laura was very happy. She did 
not speak much, for she was a little shy of this new relation 
of whom she had heard so often, and for whose return she 
was accustomed to pray at her mother's knees. 

She sat by his side, his arm round her, looking up into his 
face now and then to point out something they were passing 
or to make a simple remark, mostly about " mamma," He 
was very silent. But still they went on, up hills and down 
them, through villages, past trees and fields, till at last all the 
well-known landmarks had disappeared and Laura grew uneasy. 

" Where is mamma ?" she asked with a half inclination to 
tears ; " she cmi't have walked so far." 

He drew her on to his knees, so tenderly that she smiled 
again, and resting her head on his shoulder repeated the ques- 
tion in a quieter tone. Still no answer, and still they drove 
on, till not even the shelter of those loving arms could do 
away with the child's uneasiness ; she lifted up her dark eyes 
pleadingly : "Please tell me, shall we soon get to mamma ?" 

Then he took both her small hands and looked at her for a 
moment. " My poor Laura !" he said, " what will you say to 
me when I tell you that you are going away from mamma ?" 

" Away from mamma !" replied the child, and there came 
a sudden terror into her eyes. But Laura was a peculiar 
child. The life she had lived with those much older than 
herself, the shadow of her mother's sorrow and the influence 
of her mother's life and character, had made her unlike 
others of her own age, 

L'Estrange had been prepared for a passion of tears- and 
cries. It did not come. Only the child drew herself out of 
hie arms, and crouching down in a corner of the carriage 



216 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

looked round as though searching for a means of escape. 
Her case seemed hopeless, so she clasped her small hands to- 
gether. " Take me back," she said, earnestly ; " oh what will 
mamma say ? — poor mamma !" 

And then she cried, but it was like a woman's weeping — a 
still noiseless grief. 

L'Estrange was a disciple of Rousseau's. He cou.d under* 
stand the beautiful pathos of a situation, and the child's quiet 
tears affected him so painfully that he could scarcely refrain 
from giving vent to his own sentiments in some such way, but 
they did not persuade him to alter his purpose. He let the 
child weep for some time, then stooping down he drew the 
cold little hands from her face, and holding them in his, 
looked at her earnestly for a few moments. 

" Come to me, Laura," he said. She half rose, but, as if 
bethinking herself, drew back : " It's wrong to take me away 
from mamma. And why, why did you say we were going to 
her?" 

Yes, there lay the sting. He had deceived her, and the 
child distrusted him. He drew her to him. "This is a 
strange child," he thought, " and must be strangely treated." 

" Listen to me, Laura," he said gently, " and try to trust 
me. I know it was wrong, very wrong, but I had a reason. I 
want to do good to your mamma and to you. Your mother is 
unhappy." 

" Yes," sobbed the child ; " but it's only because papa is 
away ; if you — " She looked at him suddenly, then turned 
away, literally trembling with a new fear. •^Are you really 
my own papa that mamma tells me stories about ?" she asked 
with unchildlike earnestness, fixing her dark, mournful eyes 
on his face. 

There followed a few moments of silence. L'Estrange was 
thinking. For the first time in all his life he was staggered. 
Falsehood had hitherto always befriended him, but he had 
never before been in such a situation as this. Mentally he 
cursed his own folly, and cast about in his usually ready mind 
for something to say, for in this pure child's presence he felt 
as if he dared not lie. An inspiration came. " Laura," he 
said earnestly, " you are much better and wiser than other 
children of your age or I should not say this to ycu. I aua 



LAURA'S TASK. 247 

n:>f your father. Remember, I never told you I was, but I 
love you as much as if I were, and I love your mother. I 
want to make her happy, and you, her little daughter, must 
help me." 

L'Estrange did not mean precisely what he said, but for 
the moment he persuaded himself that he did. The child 
held her breath and listened. 

" Lauri," he continued after a pause, " what would make 
your mother happy ?" 

" For papa to come back," she said with a sigh, which he 
echoed. Only a few hours before he had thought to make 
her happiness in a very different way. But this should not 
interfere with his scheme. 

" What if you found your father, Laura, and told him this 
— that your mother was unhappy, I mean, and wanted him 
back ? Do you think he would come ?" 

The child looked up eagerly : " Oh, I'm certain he would." 
" AVell, petite, if you consent to come away with me, I will 
try and take you to your father. Do you understand me ?" 

Laura understood, certainly. She clasped her hands, but 
suddenly her face fell. " You said you would take me to 
mamma, and you didn't," she said ; " perhaps this is just the 
same." 

L'Estrange Avas right. She was a strange child and not 
easy to manage. As he hesitated for an answer she spoke 
again : " Take me back to mamma, and we can ask her 
about it." 

" No, Laura," he said as firmly as he could, for he was 
easily moved and the child had touched him to the heart. 
And then he took her in his arms again, and smoothing back 
her hair kissed the tears from her eyes. For the first time he 
was really in earnest. Instinctively the child felt it and was 
soothed. 

" Trust me, petite, and try to be calm. I do not mean }ou 
anything but good, my fair child, for you are dear to rae as 
ray own soul." 

There was a wonderful power of fascination about this man 
which had seldom failed him. It had its effects on this girl- 
child. She looked up into his strong face convulsed with 
emotion, and she Avas comforted. Her tears ceased. She lay 



248 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

back silently, and he rocked her to and fro in his arms while 
they drove on through the gathering darkness. Was the 
child wrong ? Had her heaven-sent gift of instinct failed her 
in her hour of need? I think not. Rather, in that moment 
this strange, complex-natured man was what he appeared — 
good and true. The pure child-presence, the simple words, 
the dark, searching eyes seemed to have drawn away his evil 
for the time. It was as though an angel had looked into his 
soul's darkness and with a ray of living light dispelled it 
utterly. 

It must be remembered that L'Estrange was not an Eng- 
lishman. There is, I think, a certain oneness of nature about 
the Anglo-Saxon race that renders it very difficult for its 
members to understand the emotional, impulsive, two-sided 
character of the Celt, the Latin or the Greek. An English- 
man is eminently straightforward. He does not stop to ana- 
lyze. Be his object good or bad, he is given to carrying it 
out perseveringly, leaving to the future thoughts of com- 
punction or self-gratulation. This is doubtless sweeping, as 
indeed all generalities must be, but possibly a truth underlies 
it — a truth which may explain the extreme lack of sympathy 
between ourselves and our southern neighbors. With Eng- 
lishwomen the case is different. There is always something in 
the female character that answers to this two-sidedness. Its 
Very weakness challenges a woman's sympathy. JIuscular 
Christianity, strong, manly straightforwardness, is very at- 
tractive in its way, but not so dangerous, I am inclined to 
imagine, to the female heart as this emotional impulsiveness, 
ready at one moment with tears of sentiment and tender 
analysis of feeling, and at the next with passionate indigna- 
tion and deep-breathed curses. 

L'Estrange was a son of the South, a pupil of the great 
philosopher of Nature. From his childhood upward he had 
indulged in every emotion that ruffled the calm of his strong 
spirit. From Jean Jacques he had learnt to invert the eter- 
nal unity of beauty and goodness, calling that fair which is 
wanting in truth. Therefore, when involuntarily, as he gazed 
on the child, who had sobbed herself to sleep on his shoulder, 
the moisture dimmed his eyes and his heart softened before 
her fair innocence, he felt a certain glow of .self-approbation. 



LAURA'S TASK. 249 

" I am certainly becoming a better man," he thought, but he 
did not make up his mind to restore the child to her mother 
— the woman he had once loved, the woman he had robbed 
of every joy. 

His heart ached for her sadness as in the soft emotion of 
that evening her pale face came before his mind ; but if he 
would do her good at all, it should be in his own way. 

And so they drove on — Laura, wearied out with her tears 
and the excitement, fast asleep in the arms of the man who 
had taken her from her mother ; L'Estrange scarcely daring 
to stir. In his strange way he thanked God for this sleep. 

The stopping of the carriage aroused the child. They were 
at a station some miles distant from the one by which they 
usually went from Middlethorpe to York. 

The night was dark ; only a few stars shone through the 
cloud-rents. Laura started up. " Mamma !" she cried ; then 
looking round her, she remembered and said no more. L'Es- 
trange was watching her narrowly. He had dreaded this 
awakening, for he feared a passionate outburst of grief, but 
it did not come. 

The child looked out and around her with that far-seeing 
look that some children have, as if they can see into the in- 
visible, and then, as they entered the dimly-lighted station — 
for the little lady had insisted upon being put down to the 
ground — slie looked up again into his face. It was the same 
mournful, searching gaze that had already touched him so 
deeply. 

Apparently the scrutiny satisfied her, or it may be her 
woman's instinct showed her the uselessness of resistance, for 
she gazed away again into the night and said no more till she 
found herself wrapped up tenderly and laid amongst the cush- 
ions of a first-class railway carriage. L'Estrange took his 
seat beside her and the train began to move. 

Then first the child's lip trembled, and there came a look 
of distress into her small face. L'Estrange stooped over her : 
" Are you frightened, darling ?" 

" Not frightened," said the little girl ; " but — " 

"But what? Tell me." 

Then came the trouble with a burst of tears: "I want 
mamma to tuck me up and hear my prayers. We say theij 



250 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

— mamma and I — when the stars come in the sky; and the 
stars are up there now, and — and I want mamma." 

For Laura was only a very little girl, and this want made 
her first realize what it was to be without her mother. 

Her companion did not answer, and the child went on in 
her simplicity : " God is up there above the stars a very long 
way away, but I know He hears, for when mamma was in 
London and Jane was cross, I told Him and He brought her 
back after a long time. Oh, please, will it be a great many 
nights before we go back to mamma ?" 

As she spoke those silent tears so pitiful from a little child 
began to flow, and her companion once more felt inclined to 
curse himself for his short-sighted folly. He knelt down be- 
side her in the carriage, and she saw that his face was very 
pale and that real tears were in his eyes. 

" Ma fillette, ma ch^rie," he whispered, for in his emotion 
the English endearments sounded hard and cold, " be patient 
— trust me." 

For a few moments Laura was soothed, but still, as there 
came the gleam of the stars through the darkness, the child- 
ish wail was repeated : " I want mamma ! I want mamma !" 

L'Estrange was perplexed. Passionate sorrow he had ex- 
pected, and he had not despaired of curing it by distractions, 
but this quiet pathos of grief cut him to the very soul. Li 
its presence he was helpless. How could he comfort her? 

He pondered, but for a long time in vain. At last his own 
childish days returned to his mind, and the stories he had 
learnt at his nurse's knee. " It was in parables," thought this 
master of human nature, " that the Great Teacher taught the 
world ; and what were the myths of antiquity but parables to 
prepare the nations in their childhood for the reception of 
truth ? By a parable I may perhaps make this little one be- 
lieve that her present suffering is for a future good." 

By which it will be seen that he still thought, in some 
vague way, of redressing the great wrong he had committed, 
and by means of the child, whom he had stolen in an access 
of bitter revenge, restoring Margaret to happiness by giving 
her back her husband. 

" Laura," he said, lifting her from the cushions and hold- 
hig her in his arms, " (?an you listen to a story ?" 



LAURA'S TASK. 251 

" Yes," said the child wearily. 

"Listen, then, ma fillette, and try to understand rne. It ia 
long ago that I heard this story, when I was a little child 
like you, and perhaps you have heard it many times, for i1 
comes from a book that English people read. There was a 
man who had a great many sons — twelve, I think — and he 
loved one of them more than all the others; we do not know 
why — perhaps he was beautiful and good. This boy was 
of course very happy at home, because he was always with 
his father, who gave him everything he wanted. But at 
last his brothers grew angry — jealous, I think you call it in 
English." 

Laura drew in her breath with a sigh of contentment. 
" Why," she interrupted, " you are telling me about Joseph !" 

" Yes," he replied gravely, " and ma fillette knows that 
Joseph was sent to a country a long way off, far from his 
father who loved him." 

" Like me," said Laura sighing. 

" And ma fillette knows, too, that Joseph saw his father 
again." 

" After a long, long time," said the child. 

" After a long time, it is true ; but what did he do then ?" 

Laura looked away at the stars : " Gave his father bread 
and a house and sheep, and everything he wanted." 

For she knew all about this, her favorite Bible story. 

There was a pause then. The child and her companion 
were thinking. 

At last L'Estrange spoke : " And was he sorry afterward, 
this good Joseph, that he had been taken away from his 
father?" 

" I think he was glad," said Laura in a lov/ tone ; " only it 
was such a very, very long time. But if I thought what you 
say I wouldn't mind the long time." 

" Think it, then, ma fillette," he said, stooping over her 
with his own peculiar smile, which seemed to shine like light 
on his dark face. And the child believed him. 

It was a strange doctrine to take root in so young a miu I. 
for the subtle parable wrought powerfully. The great fact 
of self-sacrifice, the suffering of some for the good of others, 
began to dawn upon the child's mind. It was real suffering 



252 CHASTE AS ICE, PUBE AS SNOW. 

to be separated from her mother, to be wandering with this 
stranger through the night instead of lying in her warm white 
bed in her mother's room ; but Laura neither wept nor com- 
plained. Her tears ceased, and her dark eyes grew large 
with thought. For she had overcome her distrust of her 
companion ; she believed with the simple faith of childhood 
that what he told her was true. Her strong imagination 
idealized him into a guide (like Great Heart in the bit of the 
Pilgrim's Progress she loved the best) come to put an end to 
her mother's troubles by bringing her father back to them ; 
and for her part in the great work the child, with unchildlike 
calm and thoughtfulness, was ready. 

It was late before they reached York, but rooms were ready 
at an hotel to which L'Estrange had telegraphed, and the 
good-natured chambermaid took every care of the little lady. 
Going to bed so far from mamma was hard work for the poor 
child, and her sobs and tears and sudden startings from sleep 
were subject of much speculation to the attendant ; but at 
this time she said nothing, as her services were very liberally 
remunerated. 

L'Estrange passed a very different night. He had been 
longing for its deep solitude, that he might think out undis- 
turbed the unwonted thoughts to which the experiences of 
that day had given rise. And the night came — heavy, dark, 
brooding, suitable to his spirit's mood. 

He went to his room, but there he could not rest ; under its 
narrow roof even thought would not come to him ; he rose 
and went out. The town was silent in the darkness, and 
utterly undisturbed he walked through the quaint, narrow 
streets, under low-browed gates and arches, till in a few min- 
utes he gained the open country. A wide, grassy expanse it 
seemed to be, as far as he could see by the faint light that 
struggled now and then through the clouds — undulating here 
and there, and bordered in the distance by a fringe of wood, 
behind which a line "of light that told of either twilight or 
dawn wa. lying low down on the horizon. 

A gate opened on to the smooth turf. He unlatched it, 
and, after a few more rapid steps, threw himself down on the 
grass with his face to heaven. A sudden craving for i est of 
some kind — rest of conscience, rest of heart, rest of soul— 



LAURA'S TASK. 253 

had come to him, and in the night's stillness he had set him* 
self the task of thinking out the problem. 

In the morning of the long day he had thought to rest in 
love. That hope had gone by. It did not rehire so con- 
summate a master of human nature as himself to recognize 
clearly that this was vain ; and strive as he would he could 
not forget Margaret ; her beauty haunted him as the vision 
of impossible good must follow the lost — a torment, because 
unattainable for ever. Later, he had imagined that revenge 
in its bitter satisfaction might rest his spirit. His scheme 
had succeeded, but this too was vanity, or worse, for the child 
whom he had looked upon merely as the instrument of his 
vengeance had opened his eyes, and instead of rest came the 
stinging pang of remorse to harass his tormented soul. 

And thus it had ever been with him. The beautiful "spirit 
of delight " he had been seeking from his youth up ; always 
with the same result — to find under the beauty, ashes ; under 
the glory, dull despair. 

At first, as he lay there under the canopy of cloud, the 
thoughts of this strange man were nothing higher than self- 
pity and bitter complaining of wayward fate. His being 
seemed for the moment a thing apart from himself He took 
it in his hand and reasoned on it. Why was it formed to en- 
joy when enjoyment was a thing unattainable? Why was it 
tortured with longings which for ever were destined to remain 
unsatisfied? Why was beauty so fair and good so lovely 
when always they looked on it from afar ? What was this 
superior fate that fed its slave with mocking visions — remov- 
ing evermore and ever farther the cup of bliss for which his 
thirsty soul was panting? 

The soft sensualist felt the tears brimming to his eyes aa 
he pondered on his calamities. It was the remembrance of 
his own parable that first aroused him, for the man was not 
naturally weak. Brought up in a different school, he might 
have been different. Education had made him a formalist 
and from forms he had turned away in his manhood, thinking 
in the direct opposite to find freedom and truth. 

The formalist had cast off" every tie of faith, only to fall 
into the closer bondage of fatalism. And the worst of it aL 
was that there seemed no opening for him into the light 



254 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

But, though he little suspected it, he had found a teacher, and 
in the stillness of that night the lessons fallen from the lips 
of one of God's little ones began to take effect upon his 
mind. 

It was not so much his own parable as its effect upon Laura 
l!iat struck suddenly to the root of his selfish murmuring. 
His sensuous soul had been hitherto seeking with all its 
power for beauty as a resting-place. He had thought to find 
it in the gratification of his senses, but it had always eluded 
him. The child's earnest look that night as she took up at 
his command the burden of suffering for the good that was to 
come — not so much to herself as to another — made a new idea 
dawn upon his mind. Was there, then, an unsuspected beauty 
even in suffering when sanctified by high ends ? If so, he had 
been all his life seeking in vain. 

Suddenly as the idea flashed in upon his brain — with the 
vision of that patient little face, from which something more 
than a child's spirit seemed to look — he sprang to his feet 
and walked rapidly forward into the night. Like a dream 
his former life seemed to map itself out before him in those 
few moments of intense feeling. The days, the years that had. 
in spite of his efforts, furrowed his face and sprinkled their 
gray ashes on his head, how had he spent them ? In seeking 
the good which ever eluded him, in fleeing from the shadow 
that ever pursued him. The good had been happiness, beauty 
— the evil had been pain, suffering. Physical suffering, 
mental suffering, sympathetic suffering, vicarious suffering, 
— this he had striven to blot out from the story of his life ; 
he would believe that it did not exist, and when in unmis- 
takable evidence it had presented itself to his senses, he would 
forget its presence or drown its influence in distractions. 

And now came this child-messenger to tell him that all this 
time he had been banishing a holy thing, a soul-purifier. It 
had ennobled the young face that night till an angel's pure 
beauty seemed to rest upon it. Even his peerless Margaret 
had gained in calmness and strength by those years of desola- 
tion ; and he who had cast it aside as abhorrent, what was 
he becoming? 

He asked himself this with an involuntary shudder. He 
had always rejoiced in the tenderness of his heart. His very 



LAURA'S TASK. 255 

objection to the sight of suffering had been laid to this accoui|,t 
in the self-analyses which with him had been so frequefilri 
and now what did he find himself doing ? Coolly infliclji»€ 
torture on a woman and child — two of the weakest of Goii* 
creatures — and all for the gratification, not of the best Wui 
of the worst feelings of his nature. Once more L'Estrang* 
threw himself to the ground, but this time his face was turned 
earthward and buried in his hands, while wave after wave of 
bitterness passed over his troubled soul. 

When he looked up the white dawn was beginning to strug- 
gle with the darkness. Gray clouds and intermediate patches 
of pale blue had become visible, and heavy, bead-like drops 
of dew stood on the blades of grass. His face was wan, like 
that of oue Avho had passed through a death-agony, but it 
looked better. He rose to his feet and paced slowly back to 
the town. At the railway-station he stopped, knocked up a 
telegraph-clerk, and sent a message apparently to London, 
then returned to his room at the hotel, arousing the astonish- 
ment of two or three sleepy waiters who were up in expecta- 
tion of an early train. 

There he sat down before the table, opened his desk and 
taking from it a sheet of paper began a letter. It seemed a 
difficult one to write, for sheet after sheet was destroyed before 
he could satisfy himself. It was accomplished at last, how- 
ever, and the words written seemed to be very few, but a 
smile flitted over his face as he read them. Then he pressed 
the paper to his lips, enclosed it in an envelope, and wrote 
the address with a trembling hand. 

L'Estrange's method of spelling English words was very 
eccentric. He could speak the language well enough, as he 
had lived long in England, but he could never bring himself 
to write it. Why words should be spelt in such an arbitrary 
way he could not or would not understand. All he could 
suppose was that the English would keep in this, as in every- 
thing else, to their national characteristic of eccentricity. 

English eccentricity had always been a fruitful theme with 
L'Estrange. On the point of spelling he was obstinate. He 
persisted in spelling phonetically, and as a natural conse- 
quence his letters very often went astray. 

It will be as well to say at once that this was the unhappy 



256 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

fate of the letter in which his mental struggles culminated. 
It was written in French and addressed to Margaret. She 
never got it. Three weeks later, after vain endeavors had 
been made to procure it some destination, it was returned to 
the hotel from which it had been written. There it awaited 
the return of its writer. 



CHAPTER II. 

A WASTED LIFE. 

A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain, 

That did love Beauty only (Beauty seen 

In all varieties of mould and mind), 

And Knowledge for its beauty ; or if Good, 

Good only for its beauty, seeing not 

That Beauty, Good and Knowledge are three sisters 

That doat upon each other — friends to man. 

Living together under the same roof, 

And never can be sundered without tears. 

The heavy rings round Laura's eyes and her general lan- 
guor when she appeared in the private sitting-room her pro- 
tector had taken deeply grieved him. 

For a few moments he felt inclined to act upon his natural 
impulse of kindliness — to take the child back to her mother, 
and pursue his strange scheme of setting Margaret right with 
her husband by himself. But a remnant of selfishness with- 
held him. Laura, in her sweet, childish innocence and in 
the unchildlike development of her inner life, was a beautiful 
problem, the like of which had never before, in all his wan- 
derings through the fields of humanity, been presented to 
him. He longed to study her more closely, and this could 
only be done by following out his original scheme. He deter- 
mined, therefore, to leave the decision to her. 

He said very little during breakfast-time, only watched her 
with a certain curiosity. He was gratefiil to this child who 
nad opened a door of light in his soul, though he was not 
near enough to her in purity and beauty to know how great 
was the service she had rendered him. 



A WASTED LIFE. 257 

Breakfast was something of a pretence to both of them. 
The longing for her mother, and the brave determination to 
choke it down in her heart till she had done what was re- 
quired of her — found this unknown father and brought him 
back — made the child too excited for eating to be any plea- 
sure to her ; and L'Estrange at the best of times could not eat 
80 early. 

When it was over the child got up. "Please," she said hes- 
itatingly. She was in a great perplexity about what she 
should call her new protector. 

He read her thought : " Come here, Laura." 

She went quietly to his side, and he drew her on to his 
knees. " I knew another Laura once," he said quietly, strok- 
ing back her hair ; " she was the sister of your mother ; but 
she is dead now, pauvre enfant !" And then he continued, as 
if talking to himself: "Comme elle 6tait gentille, la chere 
petite!" 

" That must be my aunt Laura," said the child ; " mamma 
has a picture of her, and I kiss it sometimes." 

"Yes, she would be your aunt, ma fillette ; you are like her. 
Ah ! I remember now — it is of her that your eyes make me 
think. Turn round to the light." 

" But why do you talk about Aunt Laura ?" said the child 
impatiently. " Please, I want a sheet of paper. I can only 
write big letters, but I think mamma would understand." 

" Patience, ma mie. I have written a letter to your mother. 
See, it is here, all ready to be sent, and if you like some of 
your big letters can go inside. You shall put it in the post- 
box yourself, that you may trust your old friend as the other 
Laura did. I told you about her because of what she used to 
call me. I should like you to do the same. It was mon phre. 
Can you say that ?" 

" Mon pere," said Laura, in her small childish voice. Then 
she thought a few moments : " That means my father, doesn't 
it ? But you are not my papa." 

" I must be your father till you find your own, Laura," he 
said gravely. " Shall it be so ?" 

"Yes, mon pdre," said the child, smiling up into his face. 

And from that moment she never doubted her protector. 
He on his part became more determined than ever in the pur- 
17 



258 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

suit of his new object. Little by little the child was doing 
childhood's Heaven-given work, drawing away selfishness and 
bringing pure love in its place. It was this that brought him 
to try his experiment. He watched the child as she sat down 
before a large sheet of paper with a pencil, writing painfully 
her letter to her mother. L'Estrange had all the innate deli- 
cacy of a refined mind ; he would not attempt to see what the 
words were that the child was tracing. _ 

She brought the paper to him when the letter was done, 
and stood beside him as he folded it up ; but before it waa 
finally put away he hesitated : " Which would you rather, 
Laura — for this letter to go to your mother, or to go back 
yourself?" 

For a moment the child's face looked bright and joyous, 
but only for a moment. The flush faded, she clasped her 
small hands together : " We must find papa first ; but, oh, I 
hope it will be soon !" 

The strong man turned away ; he had difficulty in keeping 
himself from weeping like a child. When he spoke again 
his voice was calm: "We must lose no time then, Laura." 
He rang the bell, and the waiter appeared. "Send the cham- 
bermaid here." 

When after a few moments the soft-hearted Jane came in, 
he gave her money, ordering, in those imperative tones which 
always gained a hearing with his inferiors, that the little lady 
should be supplied without delay with every necessary for a 
long journey. He did not deign to explain, nor did Jane 
venture to remonstrate. She went to an outfitter's, procured 
all that was necessary, and in half an hour from that time 
they were ready for another start. 

There followed a long and wearisome day, for the heat and 
dust were excessive, and before it was over, L'Estrange for 
the hundredth time repented as he looked on the patient little 
flished face that would yet show no sign of weariness. 

Arthur had been right in his conjecture. They were re- 
markable travellers, and many were the comments of those 
who journeyed with them — the man, with his dark face and 
foreign appearance and imperious conduct, and the fair Eng- 
lish child, at the very sight of whom his face seemed to melt 
into tenderness and his manners to take the softr.ess of those" 



A WASTED LIFE. 269 

of a woman. And no woman could have watched over her 
<3hild more lovingly or tended it with greater care than he 
watched over and tended his little charge. Food and drink 
he brought her with his own hands when it was possible to 
obtain them; whenever her position grew wearisome she 
rested in his arms, the imperious voice sinking to lulling mur^ 
murs as he told her long nursery-tales which he made out of 
everything they passed. A house, a stream, the cows in a 
meadow would be sufficient material for his fertile brain. 
Once even, when the black grimy dust had literally over- 
powered the fastidious little lady, and her timidity prevented 
her from appealing to the attendant in a waiting-room, he 
took her himself to a kind of pump, and dipping his cambric 
handkerchief into the cool water washed her hands and face 
so effectually that she laughed for pleasure. It was her first 
laugh since the moment when she had discovered that she 
was going away from her mother, and it caused L'Estrange 
as sincere a throb of gladness as he had ever known in all his 
life, for this child was gradually becoming to him something 
more than a child — something more even than the offspring 
of the woman who through all his lovings and longings had 
most entirely held his heart. He began to look upon her, in 
his strange fatalistic way, as a mysterious thing, sent to him 
at the very darkest hour of all his dark career to touch his 
blackness with fingers of light and bring good near to hiss 
soul. 

And perhaps it was partly the truth. There is, for those 
who can understand the mystery, something divine in child- 
hood ; certainly, if not nearer to God than we, children have 
the power of drawing out the divine that is in us. L'Estrange 
felt this in a very peculiar way ; he treated the child with a 
loving reverence, watching jealously her every word and 
movement as one who looks for an inspiration. 

A.nd so the long hours of the day wore away. When they 
reached London it was already late in the afternoon. Laura 
was tired, but she would not hear of remaining there for the 
night, she was too anxious to press on. 

They were met at the Great Northern Station by a gentle- 
man who appeared to have been expecting them. This man 
gave them a boisterous welcome, shook hands warmly with 



•260 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

L'Estrange, wTio did not seem to reciprocate his cordiality, 
and, chucking Laura under the chin in a familiar way, asked 
her where she was going. The child's lady-like instincts were 
offended. She answered quietly that she did not know, and 
clung to her protector's hand. 

The stranger laughed in a peculiar way, and turned to 
L'Estrange : " I didn't know you had a daughter, mossou." 

"Monsieur" replied he, emphasizing the French word, 
" was mistaken, as he very often is." 

" Well ! well !" answered the other rapidly — he was our 
friend Mr. Robinson — " I can't stand here wasting ray time. 
I gather from the telegram, which duly arrived this morning, 
that you sent for me about a certain subject. I may have 
information for you — I may not." 

" It shall be worth Monsieur Robeenson's while to give me 
his information," replied L'Estrange quietly, but with a kind 
of sarcastic courtesy. 

The courtesy struck Mr. Robinson's mind, the sarcasm 
glanced over him harmlessly. "Of course, of course!" he 
protested volubly. " You foreigners put things strangely, 
mossou ; ignorance of English ways, no doubt. Allow me to 
explain myself. In expectation of this (you gave me reason 
a little while ago to believe it might possibly be wanted) I 
have kept myself acquainted with the movements of the party 
discussed between us. You will doubtless remember the occa- 
sion. Naturally the firm is slightly out of pocket. These 
investigations, you must understand, are costly, but everything 
shall be done in due form between us. In the mean time, if 
I can be of any service — " 

" Oblige me," said L'Estrange with the same manner, that 
might be either courtesy or its semblance, " by taking this as 
an instalment." He handed him a paper packet. "The firm 
I can settle with when your lawyer's bill comes in. Your 
services, monsieur, are for the moment personal." 

Mr. Robinson bowed. His fingers itched to get to the 
inside of the packet, but it would have been unprofessional 
to show anxiety, so it rested quietly in his palm. L'Estrange 
looked at Laura to see how much of all this she had under- 
otood. Tlie little girl was still holding his hand, but her 
inoughts seemed to be elsewhere, and he addressed himself 



A WASTED LIFE. 26\ 

again to the lawyer : " Tell me, in as few words as can be, 
where was he heard of last ?" 

" The last remittances were sent to Moscow. A few weeks 
ago he was certainly there — probably is so still." 

" Moscow !" L'Estrange repeated the word in a dismayed 
tone, looking down as he did so at the child whose hand ha 
held. 

Mr. Robinson guessed his thought, and broke in volubly : 
" You surely don't think of going there yourself, and with 
that child too ! Why, it would be preposterous, and not the 
smallest necessity. Give us time and we can gain further in- 
formation. If necessary, I could go there myself, though of 
course it would be an expensive business. In any case, leave 
your little girl. My wife would be delighted to look for a 
nice school — conducted, you know, on Christian principles — 
where every care would be taken, both in the way of physical 
and mental training." 

Mr. Robinson would have his say out. He affected to con- 
sider that duty required him to give salutary advice in season 
and out of season ; and as duty, in his sense of the term, 
was always closely connected with business, he had already in 
his own mind fixed upon a temporary residence for the child. 
A lady who owed him a long outstanding bill was anx'ious to 
take in pupils. This new client was evidently a liberal payer ; 
through the profits made out of the child a part, at least, of 
that just debt might be paid oflf. 

But his client did not look at matters in the ?ame light. 
lie tried to stop his voluble utterances, for the little hand he 
held was trembling. Laura, hearing herself discussed, had 
taken a sudden interest in the proceedings. She looked up at 
her protector and saw that his brows were knit angrily. This 
alarmed her. She burst into tears. " Oh ! please don't leave 
me with him," she sobbed ; " take me with you or let me go 
back to mamma." 

How his face changed as he heard the child's cry ! It be- 
came suddenly soft as that of a woman. He stooped down to 
her and wiped away her tears, whispering all kinds of gentle 
assurances. Then he turned again to the lawyer with that 
ominous frown : " You see what you have done. Be so good, 
monsieur, as in the future to preserve business relations in out 



262 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

necessarj intercourse, nor presume to advise me at all on mat* 
ters that do not concern you," 

Another man would have been struck dumb or else have 
retired offended, but the lawyer was of the tough sort. This 
was too valuable a client to be sacrificed to feelings. " No 
offence meant, I assure you, sir," he hastened to say — " only 
interest; but" (seeing the frown gather) "to return to busi- 
ness. I have a few more details that may be useful — the ad- 
dress of an agent in Moscow, the — " 

" Write them out for me, and send them to the usual ad- 
dress in Paris by to-morrow morning's mail. At the present, 
monsieur, we have no more time for delay. It is necessary 
to dine before taking the train again to Southampton." 

"You leave, then, this evening? Can I be of any 
further—" 

"No, thank you, Mr. Robeenson." He bowed in his 
stately manner and turned away to the refreshment-rooms 
with Laura, leaving the lawyer on the platform, still grinning 
his contentment. 

As they distanced him the child gave a sigh : " I'm so glad 
he's gone !" 

" Why, then, did you not like him, ma mie ?" 

" No, mon p^re, not at all ; he doesn't look good." 

" I think the b^b^ is right," he said in a low tone ; " mais 
que faut 11 faire ? — Little wise one," he continued aloud, " we 
must take the people as we find them, some good and some 
bad, making our own use of them all. Is that too hard a 
philosophy for the little brain ?" 

Apparently it was, for the child madeiio answer. 

In the mean time L'Estrange had seated her at one of the 
marble-topped tables, and before thinking about his own din- 
ner was trying to find out what would best suit her appetite. 
The well-feed waiter was flying about to supply all hor wants ; 
dainty after dainty, which she scarcely touched, was put upon 
her plate. It was such a new scene to Laura that her appe- 
tite fled with the excitement. 

Many looked at her curiously in the crowded room, for 
Laura was a peculiarly beautiful child. Her golden curls 
and her dark, lustrous eyes, with the transparent delicacy of 
complexion she had inherited from her mother, and the child- 



A WASTED LIFE. 263 

ish grace which is the gift of God to her age of helplessness, 
made her very attractive. She was rather embarrassed at the 
attention she excited, noticing which her protector stood up 
and folding his arms looked right and left so haughtily that 
the most compassionate and least curious of the many behold- 
ers felt as if their admiration of the fair child had been an 
indiscretion. 

After dinner the wearied little one fell asleep in hife arms, 
and only awoke to find herself in the train, which was far 
on its way to Southampton. She was getting accustomed to 
her new friend and to these sudden wakings ; so this time, to 
his great relief, she did not cry out for her mamma, but clung 
to him still more closely. They stopped at Southampton. It 
was a lovely night, the sea still as glass and the dark blue sky 
alight with moonshine and studded with stars. 

Laura and her protector stood together on the steamer's 
deck. " Will ma fillette go to bed ?" he asked. 

The child shook her head. " Oh ! please let me stay out 
here," she pleaded, " I promise not to be a trouble, and the 
stars are so nice." 

Without another word he wrapped her up in his own fur- 
lined overcoat and made a bed for her on one of the seats, 
himself watching beside her. 

But this time Laura could not sleep, the position was too 
strange. " What is that noise ?" she asked nervously as the 
plash of the water against the great paddle-wheels came to 
her ears. 

" The water and the wheels," he answered. " The wheels 
are rolling along through the waves, taking us over the 
sea." 

The child raised herself on her elbow and looked round: 
"Where are we going? There's only sky and clouds out 
there. But, oh !" clasping her hands in delight, " look at the 
moon on the water. I see it like that at home sometimes. 
Once, when I could not go to sleep, mamma took me to the 
window, and a little bit of the sea was all white as it is to- 
night. She said it was the moon, and now we're going to 
catch the moon in the water. Oh! tvhy didn't mamma 
come ?" 

For this was the ever-recurring trouble of the child. Hei 



264 CHASTE AS ICE, I'UEE AJS SNOW. 

love fcr her mother was stronger and more enduring than it 
generally is among those of her age. A mother gives ; but 
very often years pass before she receives any return to her de- 
votion. Laura's love was strong, because, in the first place, 
there was nothing to divide it : her young life had never held 
another affection. Then her love and childish sympathy had 
for some time been partially checked, and, it may be, had 
therefore grown stronger in their secret place. Only during 
the last weeks had her young affection had its free course in 
the light of her mother's comprehending love. 

Her plaint made her companion wince, but he would not 
answer it. After a few moments he looked at her again and 
saw that tears were in her eyes. They were reflecting, in their 
moistness, the white shimmering moonlight ; in its pure un- 
earthly shining the little face seemed almost transfigured. 

L'Estrange had been superstitious from his youth up. He 
was the very creature of those dreams and inspirations to 
which the glowing South gives birth. Perhaps they had 
weakened his strong intellect. At any rate they had kept it 
in the shadowy twilight, giving little chance for living truth 
to make its entrance into his soul. 

The look on the child's face startled him. "Does she be- 
long to this earth ?" he asked himself. 

"Laura," he whispered, "look away from the stars. 
Doubtless they are thy sisters and brothers, little one, but 
look for one moment from them to me, and say what thoughts 
are in the busy little brain at this moment ?" 

The child smiled : " I was thinking about the moon and 
about mamma, mon p^re. I was wondering if she is looking 
at the moon noWj and if she got my letter, and if she misses 
me very much." 

Her simple reflections did not satisfy her friend. I think 
at the moment he would scarcely have been surprised if the 
child had developed budding wings and floated away into the 
sympathetic moonshine ; his superstition, it may be, specially 
as displayed by one whose sex might have been supposed to 
lift him above such weakness, will seem strange and improb- 
able to the majority of readers. A man allotv himself to 
think seriously of such follies? Yes — a man, and not the first 
nor the last, by a great many. The inhabitants of our island 



A WASTED LIFE. 26 « 

are not alone on the face of the earth. In the glow of the 
sunny South, where generations have lapped their souls in 
sunshine and indolently lived on the abundant gifts of lavish 
Nature, where life can be sustained by a little, and the strug' 
gle for existence is less painful and bitter, there has been 
dme for dreaming ; and perhaps this has enervated the moral 
sense and loosened the sinews of mind, till pleasure has be- 
come a god and the mind receptive of strange things. 

In the early days of civilization, befoi'e these things had 
wrought fully on the character, pure reason, law and its cold 
abstractions, divine art and severe philosophy made the South 
their centre, for when we think of these first Athens and then 
Rome come before the mind. And at that age in the gray 
formless North the legend flourished, with many a wild super- 
stition. But all that has changed. A light dawned upon the 
mighty tribes ; their superstitions fell, and they girded them- 
selves with strength, while evermore in the sunny lands dreams 
gained ground, and weakness followed in their train, till at 
last what is it that we see? In the city where Pericles ruled, 
where Socrates taught, where Plato reasoned, they dream and 
do not ; in imperial Rome a shadow, an old mediseval fiction, 
has kept the people from freedom as they gloried in the past 
and dreamed about the future, and in the mean time we of 
the gray North are rapidly casting from us almost everything 
but what we can see, taste, hold and understand. 

Be practical ! is the watchword of the age, and sentiment 
is repudiated, and imagination cried down or relegated to ex- 
treme youth and the weakest of weak womanhood. Are there 
many, I wonder, who find the medium — whose strong souls 
are strong enough to allow that there is something which 
passes their ken— who think it no shame to be at certain 
moments swayed by sentiment, governed by a dream of ideal 
loveliness, and yet who work on in their daily calling unsick- 
3ned and undismayed? 

There are some such souls, and to no climate are they pe- 
culiar. L'Estrange might have been one of them. There 
was in his imaginative faculty, in his receptivity to beauty 
and sentiment, in his sympathetic tenderness, a something that 
marked him out as one born to a higher life than that of self 
gratification. His success among women was chiefly owing 



266 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

to this. For it is the good, not the bad in a character, that 
draws and enchains the loving worship of womanhood. 

Where a man reads weakness a woman's keen eye beholda 
what underlies that weakness, and if it be lovable she is ready 
to adore. 

What L'Estrange wanted was this : A soul to understand 
the beauty and glory of truth — truth on the lips aud truth in 
the life. To indulge his love of beauty he had wrapped him- 
self in the rose-colored mists of dreams ; to preserve himself 
and others from pain he had never hesitated to resort to false- 
hood. He might have been very different. Some of the mis- 
ery of that " might have been " was in his soul that evening 
as he turned from the child and paced up and down the 
steamer's deck, for a dark hour had come and he could not 
bear to face his good genius. With arms folded and brows 
knit, his dark face looking forward into the moonlight, he 
thought until thinking was pain. But the influence of the 
child had begun to work. He woul 1 not, as he usually did, 
cast aside the painful thinking because of the pain that was 
in it ; rather he looked it in the face, trying to touch its cen- 
tre, and so, it might be, find a cure. 

Oh, it was a hard task ! For his was the misery of a 
wasted life, and a life that had brought desolation. True his 
innate refinement, the self-respect of a high intellect, had kept 
him tolerably free from what is gross and degrading, but that 
midnight retrospect was bitter notwithstanding. Pleasure 
sought and taken at the expense of truth ; blighted lives, to 
which he had brought the warm beauty of love, leaving them 
when the mood had changed to find it where they could ; 
good that he might have done and did not ; wasted talents, 
used-up powers, — these came before his conscience in an ac- 
cusing throng. And there was no help for it. He had one 
life only, and the best of that life had gone. L'Estrange, 
though he professed to believe in a futurity to the soul, was 
that saddest of all beings, a practical infidel. In the misery 
of self-communion his thoughts turned suddenly to the mem- 
ory of his boyhood's faith, to the days when heaven had been 
a reality and the saints robed in white, the pure queen of the 
fikies, the fair infant in her breast, had formed part of his 
hopes and dreams for the future. They bad vanished like 



,4 WASTED LIFE. 267 

ni3rths born of the early vapor. They had been too shadowy 
to bear the inroad of hot, ]urid noon. Tried, they had been 
found wanting, and what had he left in the hour when his 
heart and spirit craved for something unearthly as their rest ? 
Nothing. All he found within, as he ventured shudderingly 
to lift the curtain that hides the unseen from the seen, was a 
" certain fearful looking-for of judgment and fiery indigna- 
tion," which no man, if ten times over an infidel, can escape 
when the hour comes. 

His dark face darkened. If all were hopeless, then why 
should he pause ? Why had the good that was in him made 
him hesitate at last ? He would crush it down and gain his 
own ends, even through suffering itself. He stopped in his 
rapid walk and looked over the vessel's side. It was a real 
blackness, for clouds had covered the face of the moon, and 
had gathered here and there in heavy masses on the horizon. 

A moaning wind swept across the sea, ruffling the waters 
till the vessel rocked to and fro. Then the dark face relaxed. 
The desolation of the watery waste had been responsive to his 
mood. " So be it, then," he muttered, looking out into the 
darkness. He was for the moment like the grand creation 
of Milton, that ideal Lucifer, when his last struggles after 
goodness have culminated in the fatal cry, " Evil, be thou my 
good !" 

But L'Estrange was not yet absolutely God-forsaken. As 
he spoke something touched his knees. He looked down im- 
patiently. But suddenly his impatience changed. He drew 
himself away with a murmured exclamation f nd a strange 
contraction of heart. Was it a miracle ? For this was what 
he saw. The kneeling figure of a child, the hands clasped 
and the eyes lifted up to his. On the face was a bright 
shining that made the golden hair like a saint's halo, and 
brought out the picture in every small detail — the tremulous 
lips, the fair soft brow, the lustrous eyes under their silken 
fringe. The face was Laura's. In her companion's mood it 
seemed transfigured, like that of an angel lamenting over his 
sins and follies. Involuntarily he bowed his head. The 
strong man trembled like a child at the evidence of all he 
had imagined, and yet the phenomenon was very common- 
place. This was what had caused it. The faithful child ha/1 



268 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

read his trouble, and as she had already allowed him to find 
his way to her heart, it made that little heart sad. In her 
mother's sadness Laura had sometimes proved a comforter, 
and the thought came into her head that she mig^ \ comfort 
her friend. So when he had stopped by the vessor; side the 
little child had risen noiselessly, and kneeling by his side had 
clasped her small hands about his knees. Then came the 
partial darkness, which with her friend's seeming indifference 
frightened her so much that she loosened her hold and looked 
up pleadingly. A sailor who was walking about with a lan- 
tern looking after the rigging had been watching this little 
episode. In his curiosity he caused its light to shine full upon 
the child's face, so that when L'Estrange turned round he saw 
it irradiated, while, as the sailor stood behind him, the source 
of the sudden radiance was hidden. 

The illumination did not last longer than a few minutes. 
The man turned away to his business, his heart softer for this 
glimpse of innocent beauty ; Laura and her protector were 
left in the darkness. But until the day of his death 
L'Estrange believed that the light which irradiated the child 
came down from heaven. 

He was recalled to his belief in Laura's mortality by a lit- 
tle wailing cry. She put out her hands to feel for her friend, 
as the darkness and silence alarmed her. Then he stooped 
down reverently and lifted her up in his arms. The sorrow- 
ing angel was his own little Laura, fair and pure in her hab- 
itation of flesh and blood, for, clasping her small arms about 
his neck, she burst into a passion of tears. The darkness, the 
sense of loneliness, the over-excitement had wrought upon 
the child's nerves, and L'Estrange forgot all his wild thought! 
in the effort to comfort her. Instead of seeking evil as a 
good, he became tender as the tenderest of fathers while he 
strove to make her forget her fears. 

He succeeded at last. She lay on his knees, quiet, only for 
a sob or two at intervals, her golden head against his breast, 
one hand round his neck, the other lost in his large grasp — 
she was afraid of losing her friend again — and he soothed her 
by murmuring low, crooning melodies that he thought he had 
forgotten long ago. Then when the morning came and they 
were near their destination, he took her to the stewardess fcr 



A TALE ABOUT THE STABS. 269 

all needful combing and dressing. But from that time 
L'Estrange treated the mortal child with a strange rever- 
ence. 

Later in that day, when they were wandering through the 
quaint streets and corners of old Rouen, and the child had 
almost forgotten her sorrows in wonder and delight, he 
brought his trouble to his young oracle. " Have you ever 
been naughty, Laura ?" he asked, looking down upon her 
with a smile that was almost one of incredulity. 

The child smiled: "Oh yes, mon p^re — a number of 
times." 

"And what did you do, ma fillette? — when you were 
naughty, I mean." 

" I told mamma about it," said the child simply, " and she 
always said something to make me good again." 

"But, Laura, when people are grown up and have no 
mamma to tell, what must they do then ?" 

For a moment the child looked troubled and thoughtful ; 
then, as a light seemed to dawn upon her, she smiled. " I 
should think they might tell God," she said. 

The wayworn man bowed his head, and that evening in the 
solitude he told God. For the child was making him believe 
in the actual goodness (for only the Good could have made 
anything so good and pure) and in the possibility of goodness 
for himself, as he was still able to love and reverence it. 

Slowly the light dawned upon his benighted soul, and only 
after many struggles with the darkness that was in him : this 
telling God was the beginning. 



CHAPTER III. 
A TALE ABOUT THE STABS. 

Could we but deem the stars had hearts, and loved, "" 

They would seem happier, holier, to us even than now; 
And ah ! why not? — they are so beautiful. 

The strange travellers continued their wanderings. News 
reached them at Paris about the object of their journey, but 
news so indefinite that L'Estrange thought it well to proceed 



270 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

■with caution. In any of the places through which they 
passed it was possible Maurice Grey might be found. He did 
not seem to be in Moscow, although for the time all commu- 
nications were to be addressed to an agent there. 

He told as much as was possible of his plans and ideas 
lo the child, and her impatience was stayed while they 
wandered through the English quarter of Paris and appeared 
in the galleries and public places — her friend, who knew the 
city well, making every inquiry about the stranger's residence 
there. 

And in the mean time L'Estrange enjoyed his peculiar 
position and the kind of mystery that the beautiful, fair- 
haired child excited among the few of his friends whom he 
could not avoid meeting. Mystery had always been one of 
his chief tools. He delighted in wrapping himself up in this 
misty obscurity. It challenged curiosity and excited interest. 
He was given to appearing and disappearing without render- 
ing to any one an account of his motives, and the rumors 
current about him were many. Even his nationality was a 
matter of doubt to some of his nearest associates. The gen- 
eral idea was that he travelled here and there as a secret 
emissary from one of the societies which work under ground 
in Europe, or else that he was an agent from some one of its 
governments. L'Estrange enjoyed this curiosity. It suited 
his purposes, and he never, or very seldom, lifted the veil. 
To say the truth, the aims of his journey were as varied and 
complex as himself. This was not the first that had been 
undertaken with a good object, though never before, perhaps, 
had self been so entirely set aside. 

Maurice Grey was his enemy. He had taken his treasure. 
He had possessed himself — for the fact was slowly dawning 
on his mind through the child's innocent prattle — not only 
of the person, but of the heart and afiections, of the one 
woman in all the world for whom he had ever cherished a 
perfect sympathy. For although L'Estrange had felt many 
times a certain power in womanhood, although his senses had 
been enchained and his self-love flattered, yet it was true that 
this time only had his whole being been surrendered, this 
once only had love become one with his life — entered into hint 
as a thing from which nothing but death could free him. 



A TALE ABOUT THE STARS. 271 

Sometimes, as witli his child beside him he wandered 
through the gay city, it came over him like a flood what it 
would be to come upon this man, to look into his face, to be- 
hold in it the workings of that soul which for an apparent 
weakness could have cast off Margaret; and then to do what? 
To take his revenge by proclaiming in words that could not 
be denied the purity of his forsaken wife — by giving up into 
his keeping the child whose young love he had despised. 
And if, after all, he should be unworthy of this happiness ? 
L'Estrange was walking through the Champs Elys^es with 
Laura late in the afternoon of a sultry day when this thought 
dawned upon him. 

He stopped, and sitting down on one of the chairs drew the 
child to his knees. There was a fierce determination in his 
face that half frightened her. 

" Mon p^re !" she said gently. 

He turned his face from her and hid it with his hand. 
L'Estrange was vowing a great vow with himself. 

" By Heaven !" he muttered, but so low that she could not 
hear, " I will watch him, and if I read this weakness in his 
face he shall never know." 

Then he looked forward down the avenue. 

A tall, well-shaped and well-dressed man, English evidently, 
from his carriage and general appearance, was sauntering 
leisurely in the direction of the Place de la Concorde with a 
young French girl, who seemed to be chattering volubly and 
making good use of her eyes, hanging on his arm. There 
was a carelessness in his manner to her that seemed to mark 
her out as not precisely of his own position in the social scale, 
and this, as well as a certain resemblance, tempted L'Estrange 
to follow the pair. 

" Stay where you are till I come back," he whispered to 
the child. In the gathering twilight he followed till he waa 
close on the heels of the young Englishman. 

His companion was at that moment looking up coaxingly 
into his face. 

" But how close you Englishmen are !" she was saying in a 
wheedling tone. " I am dying of curiosity, mon ami. Tell 
me, then, about this immaculate, this runaway husband, this 
milord Anglais, who finds nothing better to do than pine 



272 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

away perhaps die, for the wife he has left behind. Mod 
dieu ! what a nation ! You are great, vous autres, in love as 
in war ; but why does he hide ? One might find a method of 
consoling him ; pas vrai ?" 

L'Estrange, who had crept under the shadow of the trees, 
and was now walking parallel with the pair, could see by the 
light of one of the scattered lamps that the young man's 
brow darkened. 

" He doesn't want such consolation as yours, Laurette. Ijut 
why do you persist in questioning me? I have told you a 
dozen times that Maurice Grey will never be game for us — 
for ws," he continued with a strange emphasis. "If I had 
taken 1m advice — " 

She smiled — a smile that looked rather dangerous : " Your 
associates would not have been the same. Continue then, 
mou ami. Are we not friends ?" 

" Of course, of course," he said hastily. " Ma chere, what 
a little goose you are, taking up a fellow in this serious kind 
of style ! You see, it's all your own fault — you put me out 
of temper by talking about that prig. I believe he has buried 
himself in the wilds. I saw him last in St. Petersburg ; then 
he said he was going to the mountains. But, good gracious ! 
how should this interest you ? I shall be jealous presently, 
Laurette, and think you in love with my saintl}'^ cousin." 

Laurette laughed — a clear, ringing laugh, but to the watch- 
ful listener it sounded hollow. 

" There is sadness under that mirth," he said to himself; 
" she has tried her wiles on the Englishman, and tried them 
in vain ; so much the better for him." 

After a few more light words, Laurette and her companion 
turned into a brilliantly-lit and decorated cafe. L'Estrange 
walked slowly back to the seat where he had left Laura. Hia 
face was very pale and his fine mouth was quivering. A fear 
had been partially laid to rest, but it might be that even in 
the fear a hope, the shadow of self-love, had rested. 

As he drew near to the seat where Laura had been left hia 
steps quickened, for the murmur of her sweet voice reached 
his ears. Some one was speaking to her, and his unquiet 
conscience filled him with fear. Perhaps they were trying tc 
steal away his treasure. 



A TALE ABOUT THE STARS. 273 

His fears were realized. A man was leaning over the 
j.liilcl's chair and speaking to her earnestly. Laura looked 
troubled and irresolute, but all her hesitation fled when she 
saw her friend. She rose suddenly, eluding with the agility 
of a child the grasping hand that sought to detain her, and 
took refuge in his arms. 

The darkness and his knowledge of Paris favored L'Es- 
trange. He caught her up and disappeared among the 
shadows with the rapidity of lightning, leaving the man, who 
was Gelding's agent and had been triumphing in his dis- 
covery, altogether bafiled. He had certainly shown very 
little judgment, for he had not even mentioned that he had 
come from her mother. The first thing he had done was to 
bewilder the child by cross-examination, to test the truth of 
his discovery. Then he had told her, in the directest way 
possible, that the man with whom she was travelling was a 
bad man, and that it was her duty to leave him at once. This, 
Laura, who had given her faith to her companion, entirely 
disbelieved. She rather feared the stranger who had come in 
the darkness to steal her away from her friend. 

But all these contradictions puzzled her brain; she felt 
alarmed, and in her bewilderment the sight of her friend was 
reassuring. It was rest for the weary child to be gathered up 
into his strong arras, and his sudden flight through the cool 
night-air was rather satisfactory than the contrary. The dry 
manner of this man of business was so difierent from the 
tender reverence, the deep emotion, of the man she called her 
father! — what wonder then that the little girl, woman-like in 
her instincts, trusted the one and was glad to flee from the 
other? 

With long strides L'Estrange passed on through the dark- 
ness, for, though the child was in his arms, he did not grow 
weary. His love prevented him from feeling her a burden. 

" I shall only give thee up to one, my treasure," he whis* 
pered ; and Laura was quite content. 

If she was becoming unspeakably dear to her friend, ho 
was also becoming dear to her. In his tenderness and devo- 
tion he seemed to clasp her round like a providence. The 
little one began to think that he must be her father, whatever 
he might say to the contrary. 

18 



274 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

And while she was thinking they went on together more 
slowly, as the darkness deepened and the danger of pursuit 
became less, into the very heart of Paris, among its network 
of streets and lanes. L'Estrange knew every inch of the way 
as well by night as by day. This was not his first midnight 
flight. 

They stopped at last before a small house in a little side 
street. L'Estrange rang the bell, and there came a respect- 
able middle-aged woman to the door. She smiled her recog- 
nition, then put out her hand and drew them in. 

" C'est toi, done, mon ami ? et, mon Dieu ! un b6b6 ! Com- 
ment! Mais entre toujours." 

She took the candle from the concierge, and preceded them 
up stairs to a little room furnished partly as a bedroom and 
partly as a sitting-room. Then, when they had seated them- 
selves and she had removed Laura's hat and jacket, she began 
bustling about, helpful as a Frenchwoman generally is, to 
prepare everything for their further stay. L'Estrange 
stopped her : 

"A thousand thanks, ma bonne Marie : we go on to-night." 

She shrugged her shoulders, a significant gesture. Marie 
was a very old friend, and L'Estrange had been her benefac- 
tor. She knew his weakness. " As you will, mon ami," she 
answered, " but this beb6 wants rest," she continued in Eng- 
lish, approaching the child and stroking her fair hair caress- 
ingly. 

The beb6 had been sitting in a large arm-chair, looking 
curiously about her. She was perfectly happy and comfort- 
able, for her friend was witb her, and Marie's benevolent face 
and pleasant cheerful voice had inspired her with confidence. 

" I'm not at all tired, thank you," she said ; " mon p6re 
carried me a long way." 

The woman turned round abruptly : " This is not yours, 
Aiolphe?" 

" Pour le moment," he answered ; and she did not dare to 
question him further, for this man, when he liked, could be 
repellant even to his friends. But the shadow passed. He 
chatted gayly with Marie upon a variety of subjects, sent a 
messenger to their hotel to settle their account and bring 
their portmanteau, and partook with Laura of cofiee of 



A TALE ABOUT THE STARS. 275 

Marie's making, and of such few substantial as she could get 
together in a hurry. 

The Frenchwoman was commissioned, sorely to Laura's 
perplexity, to take her to the station from which they were 
to start for Vienna according to L'Estrange's plans. But 
she had full confidence in her friend, and made no demur. 
He went in a separate conveyance, meeting them in the wait- 
ing-room. Before he joined them he looked round search- 
ingly. The train was on the point of starting, and the first- 
class passengers, penned up in expectation of the signal to 
take their places, were not many. L'Estrange seemed to 
breathe more freely as at last he sat down by Laura, and 
there was a light of triumph and hope in his face, which the 
keen-eyed Frenchwoman remarked. She kept her own coun- 
sels, but her eyes were moist as she bade them heartily fare- 
well. Laura and her companion sped onward for another 
weary journey. Travelling was life to him, it had become 
his second nature, and the child was so tenderly cared for, so 
constantly amused, that she scarcely knew how long the time 
was. 

A night and a day and another night, with only a few 
hours' interval — for she cared no more for rest than her com- 
panion — and at last Vienna was reached. There L'Estrange 
determined to rest for a few days, because he feared that in 
spite of all his efforts the child's health might suffer from the 
constant movement ; besides, he had given orders that letters 
should be addressed to a hotel in that city. Some of these 
might possibly contain information which would greatly affect 
their further movements. 

L'Estrange was beginning to be cautious, for he saw he was 
watched — that an effort was being made to follow him. This 
puzzled him considerably. He could not imagine how the 
search had arisen. He had thought that his letter would have 
explained everything to Margaret, and that with the hope be- 
fore her of the child being instrumental in bringing back the 
Either she would have acquiesced in his certainly rather wild 
proctedings. She knew him well enough to be aware that, 
heavy as his sins had been, from this sin he was free. He 
had never hurt a weak thing. She had known and seen how 
in the past his tenderness had carried him even too far some 



2V6 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

times, and she could not believe him so utterly changed. He 
had imagined that when she knew of his sudden repentance 
she would have been ready even to trust her treasure in his 
hands, in full faith that he meant well by her and by her 
zhild. And so far L'Estrange was right. If Margaret had 
received that strange letter, penned, as it were, with his heart's 
life blood, she would have been woman enough to have read 
its reality — she would have waited patiently, trustfully for the 
issue. The misfortune was that she did not receive it. 

He had written to her again from Paris, but this time he 
had been still more bewildered about the address. Laura 
could not assist. Like her friend, she could have found her 
way to her mother's cottage even in the night, but she ha«l 
never thought much about the name of the place where she 
lived, and its spelling was quite beyond her. Fate was inex- 
orable. His second letter went astray like the first, and 
Laura, who was hoping for an answer to her big letters, and 
L'Estrange, who was looking passionately for one line to tell 
him that he was forgiven and understood, were both destined 
to disappointment. There was a letter, however, an English 
letter, which partially explained the mystery of the attempt 
to recapture Laura on the Champs Elys^es. 

Mr. Robinson, that most respectable of solicitors, had been 
highly satisfied with the contents of the mysterious little 
packet which his foreign client had put into his hands at the 
Great Northern Station. It confirmed him in his opinion 
that the Frenchman was likely to be valuable. He deter- 
mined at once to make himself useful. And no one under- 
stood better how to make himself useful without needlessly dis- 
turbiug his conscience or compromising his character for rec- 
titude. He had scented a mystery in the fair-haired English 
child, and Margaret's story, related to him on the day follow- 
ing his meeting with L'Estrange, made him imagine that he 
?aw thjough it. Hence his lukewarmness in the pursuit en- 
trusted to him. But the young Arthur's vigorous champion- 
Bhip alarmed him for his client. He saw that everything 
would be done for the recovery of the child, whom it was his 
firm conviction the Frenchman had stolen, from some motive 
utterly unguessed at by himself. 

After Arthur had left him the lawyer cogitated for a while. 



A TALE ABOUT THE STARS. 277 

it would ndt do for him, in his capacity of family lawyer to 
JVTrs, Grey, and more especially still in his character for even 
ultra-scrupulousness, to appear to connive at such a deed as 
this of his client's, but he might, by warning him of the search 
which was being set on foot, buy his gratitude, and, what wa« 
better still, bind him to himself. 

After much planning he resolved to give the little episode 
of Arthur's visit and the search that was being inaugurated 
for the lost child as a piece of gossip which might be interest- 
ing to his client on account of his supposed connection with 
Laura's father. The letter was a grand piece of lawyer's art, 
and Mr. Robinson chuckled over it with delight. 

L'Estrange saw through the artifice, and as he read the 
letter his dark face looked grim. Opposition was like food 
to his determined soul. He set his teeth together, vowing 
inwardly that he would carry out his project in spite of them 
all. 

They were detained at Vienna. It was as he had feared : 
the constant movement, the over-excitement, the strange, new 
life, had been too much for Laura. She had a slight feverish 
attack, but her friend, who knew a little of everything, had 
studied medicine in his early years, not with a view of enter- 
ing the profession, for as a profession he despised it, but sim- 
ply to increase and intensify his power over his fellows. He 
knew how to treat the child, and was not even alarmed at her 
sudden weakness. Rest and quietness were the best remedies, 
and these he gave her, with some simple medicine whose effi- 
cacy he had often tested. The child was inclined to be sorely 
fretted at the delay. On the sixth day of their stay in Vi- 
enna (she was lying on a sofa in a splendidly-furnished room 
that looked out upon the broad, grand Danube flowing ma- 
jestically through the city, and her friend for the first time 
had left her a few minutes alone) this impatience grew almost 
too great to be borne. She buried her head in the sofa-pillows, 
and the wailing plaint for mamma came now and then, with 
heavy sobs, from her child's heart. This continued for some 
little time. When she looked up again, trying with the vain 
rcndeavor of a troubled child to stay her weeping and think 
no more of her sorrow, L'Estrange was standing at the head 
of the sofa looking down on her. His arms were folded, h« 



278 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

stood perfectly still, and there was on his face a look of such 
fixed and hopeless sadness that, child as she was, she recog- 
nized it suddenly. Her own tears ceased to flow, and for a 
moment she looked back into his face as if, with the angelic 
intuition of her age (I wonder if angels do whisper these se- 
crets to the little ones?), she would find out and understand 
what was the great woe that oppressed him. Then, as if she 
had come to a partial understanding, she raised herself on the 
Bofa and tried with all her small strength to draw down 
his dark, weary-looking face to the level of hers. He yield- 
ed to the sweet compulsion ; kneeling beside her, he suffered 
her to lay his head on the sofa-pillow and draw his cheek to 
hers. 

It was a very simple mode of consolation. She only 
whispered again and again the name he had taught her to 
call him, and pressed her childish lips to his forehead, and 
stroked back his hair with her small, hot fingers; but it 
was very efiectual. The dark look left her friend's face. It 
was as though " a spirit from the face of the Lord " had 
visited him. 

He lifted the little one into his arras and held her there for 
a few minutes, then, with a softness of tone and manner which 
none but the pure child could awake in him, he told her a 
part, at least, of his trouble. It was in the form of a parable. 
"Laura," he murmured — the darkness was gathering, and 
two or three stars had begun to shine out in the sky — " look 
up : what do you see ?" 

" The sky, mon pdre ; and now, ah, see ! the stars are be- 
ginning to shine — one, two, three. I can see them in the 
water too." 

"Do you know what it is that makes them so bright, 
fillette?" 

The child shook her head. 

" No, ma mie, nor do I very well, except that it is a ti ang. 
parent, beautiful something we in this world call light : what 
this something is I know not ; I can only tell that the light 
is very good. Now, shall I tell you a story that came into 
my head a little minute ago, about the stars out there and th« 
light?" 

" Yes, yes !" Laura clasped her hands with delight. 



A TALE ABOUT THE STARS. 279 

lu the joy of one of her friend's own stories even the 
trouble about her mother was for the time forgotten. 

He stopped as if to think. How often in the long after- 
time, when L'Estrange was to the child only the memory of 
a strange dream, when the knowledge that womanhood brought 
tlirew its light on this part of her life, did Laura remember 
his look that evening. Even then, in her childhood's ignorance, 
ittjuched and charmed her, till all unconsciously she clung to 
him more closely and trusted him more fully. He was look- 
ing up. The fitful twilight was playing on his broad, massive 
brow, and on that brow was rest. But in the deep-set, passion- 
ate eyes, in the quivering lips, the struggle could still be read. 
A longing seemed to look out from his face — a longing that 
held and enchained him till it could be satisfied. 

They sat by the window, L'Estrange in a deep arm-chair, 
the child in her favorite position on his knee. And after a 
pause, during which they were both looking up, watching how 
one star after another lit its small lamp in the sky, he began 
in a dreamy tone, rather as if he were speaking to himself 
than to any listener : "They are all alive ; yes, must it not be 
so? for every body has a soul. Those bright ones that walk 
in light amid the ceaseless music of the spheres are instinct 
with the mystery that we of this world call Life. And why 
should this not be? for life consists in the power of movement 
and volition. Surely they move. Science proves that they 
revolve evermore in their grand orbits, and surely they mill 
to shine, for it is only when we need their light that the light 
appears. Yes, it is true — these bright things live. They 
suffer pain, they know delight as well as we." 

Then, as the clasping arms of the little one recalled him 
to the remembrance of her presence, he smiled : " I promised 
a story, and ma fillette will scarcely understand such philos- 
ophy yet. It was a prelude to the tale. Listen, then, ma 
mie. Those bright things up there are alive. Each cne has 
its spirit, a being more beautiful than we of earth can con- 
ceive. I must describe them, must I ? H6las, b€b6 ! I fear it 
is beyond me. I must tell, then, of things that have not for 
me the beauty they once had — the golden dawn, and the silver 
twilight, and the freshness of early youth, and the mildness 
of sunset skies. Put all these together and thou hast a part 



280 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

only of the fairness of these beings, who were placed by God 
thousands of ages since in the bright stars up there. The 
spirits were given a work to do. They were to shine when 
the sun, who was made to be king over them all, had gone 
away to rest behind the sky. The stars were glad when they 
were told to shine, for they were all good, and this shining, 
which is for the good of our dark world down here, made 
them happy. Little children who look, as ma fillette is doing 
now, at those stars up there, feel glad when they see the light, 
but they do not know that the stars are glad too — that when 
they shine out in the night they are singing aloud for joy." 

Laura looked delighted, and put out her hand to stop her 
friend for a moment : " They must be singing now. Oh listen ! 
Perhaps we shall hear them." 

But he shook his head and smiled : " No, petite : long ago, 
when there were very few people, this music was heard. Now 
there are too many noises ; but if any one could hear it would 
be such as thee." 

Then he stopped again, and there came a sad look into his 
eyes. " There are more stars up there than we can see," he 
went on, " for some are not allowed to shine. They lie in the 
night like dead things, but still they are alive, for sadness is 
in their hearts, and this sadness is greatest now when all the 
others are shining and singing out for joy." 

Laura's eyes looked sorrowful. "Why do they sing so 
loud ?" she asked ; " they might be sorry for the poor little 
dead stars." 

" Some of them are so far away that it would take them 
thousands of years even to know that the light of the poor 
dead stars had gone out, and so they cannot tell that their 
singing makes the dead stars sad ; but those who are near are 
sad, and sometimes even try to help. My story is about one 
of the dead stars. He was meant to be a beautiful star, for 
his spirit was great and strong, with mighty wings and eyea 
piercing like those of an eagle. Every day he knelt before 
God's white throne, which is quite in the middle of those 
stars, and every night he shone out into the darkness with a 
lair and glorious shining, and sang more loudly and sweetly 
than any. But there came a time when the star-spirit grew 
tired of this happy life : his light shone less brightly than it 



A TALE ABOUT THE STARS. 281 

bad done, his voice Avas sometimes missed from tlie night- 
chorus. A change had come over him, and this was what 
had caused it. There had come to him at a time when he 
was resting idly on his wings in that dark azure above — it 
was too early for his light to be shining, and he had left the 
crystal throne — a being until then unknown to him. "It was 
dark and mournful, with black plumes covering it fron head 
to foot, and nothing of light about it but a last remnant that 
shone from its eyes. This was the spirit of darkness, whose 
dominions had been invaded and conquered by light. The 
spirit of the night let her black plumes fall, and the star saw 
she was beautiful — with a beauty that did not belong to the 
light, it is true, but that still possessed a wild charm of its 
own. It was fascinating to him, perhaps, because unlike any- 
thing he had ever seen before." 

L'Estrange was getting past Laura, but he had almost for- 
gotten the child, and she listened, not understanding much, 
but entranced as she might have been by some bewitching 
melody. Her friend paused for a moment; when he con- 
tinued his voice was low, and its tones were more sad than 
they had been : 

" The star-spirit and the spirit of the night met many times, 
and at each time of their meeting the light of the star waned 
fainter. At last, when the fascination with which she sur- 
rounded him had reached its full force, he forgot, or omitted 
purposely, to light his lamp and shine with his companion- 
spheres in the midnight heavens. Terrible things happened 
that night, for our star, which was very bright and large, had 
been well known upon the earth. 

" Sailors had given it a name of their own, and often, when 
the sea was all round them and they could not tell where they 
were, looking up they had seen this star, and its light had 
guided them. On this night the sea was running high, and 
as usual the sailors had looked up for their star, that they 
might know no rocks were near. Think of their despair 
when they found it not ! Ah ! there was one groat ship full 
of women and little children. The sailors had lost their way. 
They looked up for the star which had guided them so often : 
h^las ! its bright shining was swallowed up by the darkness. 
They took a wrong path in the waters, the big ship struck 



282 CHASTE AS ICE. PURE AS S^^OW. 

upon a rock, the w(»men and little children were drowned. 
The star-spirit did not know this. He felt no sadness that 
night, for the spirit of darkness was with him ; yet the next 
night, when he would have shone out in his place, he found 
that the power of shining had gone from him — that his star 
was a dead star in the sky. Ah, mon Dieu ' to tell of his sad- 
ness ! He would have no more to say to the night-spirit who 
had tempted him ; he shut himself up in his dark star ; he 
waited, waited, night after night, thinking that the power 
and gladness of shining might come back. It did not come ; 
even, it seemed, his star grew blacker as the ages passed, as 
if the dark spirit were wrapping it round in her heavy 
plumes. So sad a change ! No little children looking up to 
him, no weary traveller blessing him for his help, no pleasant 
music sounding from him in the evening; nothing but dark- 
ness, sorrow, misery. The stars went singing about him, and 
he lay there still, all his gladness gone out of him — a dead 
star in heaven. At last there came a night when the singing 
was louder and more joyous, and the spirit of the dead star, 
who had been hiding his head for shame at his darkness, 
looked out to see what it meant. A baby-star had been born 
into the sky, and all its sisters and brothers were rejoicing 
over its birth. The spirit of the dead star saw that its light 
was very near where his had been. It was feeble, but clear 
as dawn. The sight of the tiny light recalled to him the time 
when he too had shone out, a new joy and gladness, into the 
sky, and folding his wings he wept, as only spirits can weep, 
for a time that we on earth should call years. Perhaps his 
weeping made him better. It is impossible to say ; but sud- 
denly in the midst of it he heard a sound. It was clear, like 
the dripping of water from a fountain ; it was silvery, like 
the ringing of bells in the distance. The spirit lifted his 
head from his folded wings, and there — even in his habitation, 
in the dead star whose light he had been — stood a beautiful 
ohi Id-spirit, her head drooping, her snowy wings folded over 
her breast, a small lamp in her hand. -When the spirit of 
the dead star looked at the child she trembled, as if with fear 
at her own boldness ; so the spirit could not be angry, although 
he knew this was the baby-light that had caused his weeping 
through those long dark years. Indeed, as he looke^i up ho 



A TALE ABOUT THE STARS. 283 

began to feel love stirring in his heart ; the child-spirit waa 
so beautiful and good, and her voice was like music. For 
she spoke when she saw she needed not to fear. ' I have come 
to stay with thee/ she whispered, 'for thy darkness and silence 
made my heart ache, and I have been praying to come for all 
these years. At last I have been allowed. Must I go away 
into the dai'kness V 

" He was moved with the child-spirit's humility and love. 
He rose, and towering above her in his grandeur gathered her 
up into his breast. ' Thou shalt stay with me for ever,' he 
answered. It was the night-time. Even as the spirit spoke 
he became conscious of a certain gladness unknown to him 
for the ages of darkness that had passed, and the everlasting 
song and music grew suddenly louder and more joyous. The 
child had broken the spell of night's spirit, she had brought 
him of her light, and he was born again, feebly but truly, 
into the sky." 

L'Estrange stopped and looked down with a half smile, 
then his brow contracted. Laura had been listening breath- 
lessly. She could not understand his tale, but its strangeness 
charmed her. "Is that all?" she said with a long-drawn 
sigh. 

" Not quite all," he answered ; then, as if to himself, " the 
end has yet to come. They were very happy together," he 
continued after a few moments' silence, " the spirit of the star 
that had been dead, but was gradually being restored to life 
and gladness, and the child whose presence had wrought the 
wonder. Once more the spirit of the star bowed down by 
day before the great white throne, and the child went with 
him ; her angelic purity made her welcome there. But one 
day when they returned there was sadness at the heart of the 
spirit of the star, for he had learned that the child who had 
restored him was not to be left with him for ever ; she had 
another work to do. He looked at her. She could not be 
sad, for, unlike the other spirit, she had never sinned, and 
perhaps this made his sadness the greater. Then it had been 
sweet to shine and sing with his companion-spheres, and he 
hardly knew how he would be able to shine and sing alone. 
But he would not keep her back. Another one, sad, it might 
be, in his darkness, wanted her, and with the life and gladness 



28^4 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

his child-messenger had brought him love. So " — L'Estrange's 
voice sank — "he let her go, his beautiful, his God-given — he 
let her go." 

He said no more. For a few moments there was deep si- 
lence between them. Something of his sadness and a know- 
ledge of its cause had penetrated the child's soul through hia 
parable. Her eyes filled with tears. She looked up at the 
starry multitude, shining out now in their full glory above 
her, with a new love. At last she spoke, laying her head 
against his breast: "But, mon p6re, the spirit of the stai 
shone out still?" 

He answered sadly : " Mon enfant, I know no more." 



CHAPTER IV. 

MOSCOW. 

Mind's command o'er mind, 
Spirit o'er spirit's, is the close effect 
And natural action of an inward gift 
Given of God. 

Laura was much better the next day; indeed, the im- 
provement was so great that her protector considered himself 
justified in pressing on for another stage of their journey. 
She was not so joyful as might have been expected. Perhaps 
his parable had calmed the little girl, making her impatience 
less by the hint of possible separation. Laura cared very 
much for her friend. She had become so united to him in 
thought and affection that she could scarcely imagine a future 
without him. We must remember that with little ones, espe- 
cially when their natures are impressionable like Laura's, it 
does not take long for these attachments to be formed. With 
them habit passes quickly into a necessity. It was thus witn 
Laura. She had become so accustomed to her friend's pro- 
tecting tenderness that she could not bear to think of being 
separated from him. But Laura was not untrue to her 
mother. She thought as much as ever of her return to the 
little cottage by the sea. Only in thus far her dreams aud 



MOSCOW. 285. 

ideas were changed. She could not and would not think of 
that return, of those pleasant days when mamma would be 
happy and papa at home, without including in them all this 
kind guide who was planning their happiness. 

Her friend's look at the end of his tale had been so sad 
that she dared not ask for an explanation, and indeed hei 
own little heart had been almost too full of sympathy with 
the bereaved star-spirit for her to think of much else at the 
moment. But to this one thing in her after reflections Laura 
made up her mind : her friend should go back with her to 
her mother, he should not look so sad, they would make him 
as happy as they would be. In fact, the child mapped out the 
future, as many of her elders will do, in those long days of 
travelling that succeeded their stay in Vienna. 

They were very long and very wearisome, unbroken by in- 
cident of any kind ; the very passengers became few, and the 
towns scattered as they advanced. It was not difficult to get 
a carriage to themselves, but certainly some comforts were 
necessary to make the long journeys tolerable. Laura, how- 
ever, had no relapse. At every possible resting-place her 
companion watched narrowly to see if fatigue were taking 
any effect upon her. He was reassured. The child slept, ate 
and made herself happy. 

L'Estrange was not so fortunate. Anxiety, suspense, and a 
certain vague uneasiness of conscience concerning even this 
late delight — which seemed to have aroused the latent good 
that was in him — kept him wakeful, and by the time Moscow 
was nearly reached the faithful child noticed that he looked 
pale and ill. She told him so with a sweet womanly concern 
that sat strangely on her child's face. But he ouly smiled, 
and said rest would set him right. Evening had fallen on 
the earth when at last Moscow the long-desired dawned on the 
sight of the wanderers. It was from the midst of a desolate 
country, bleak and half cultivated, that it rose suddenly, al- 
n\ost, as it were, by magic, its glittering cupolas and myriad 
towers visible long before the city itself came in sight. 

L'Estrange, who knew all about this strange appearance 
(he had travelled through Russia before), pointed it out to the 
child. Very little could have surprised Laura much at this 
time; she had been living ever since she had left quiet 



286 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Middlethorpe in an atmosphere of wonders ; but amongst 
them all this arrival had been looked to as something pre- 
eminent. For Moscow was the city where this wonderful 
father was hiding. Laura was fully convinced that he would 
be the first person they should meet in the streets, and it did 
not seem unnatural that Moscow itself should be strange as 
any of the wonders in the Arabian tales. Perhaps, Laura 
reasoned with herself, it was because it was so beautiful and 
wonderful that her father had remained there. She had heard 
of people who had gone to heaven, not wishing to come back, 
and vaguely she blent the two ideas together till the feeling in 
her mind was something like this : Moscow was like heaven, 
so beautiful and delightful that those who went there never 
wanted to go home again. 

The first sight of the ancient city was enough to justify her 
dreams. It was to the child like a glimpse of Fairyland. 
Once at the window, watching the gradual approach, out of 
the pale evening light, of those dim, ghostly giants that lifted 
their stately heads from the surrounding dimness, nothing 
would persuade her to leave it. 

They drew nearer and the darkness gathered, so that Laura, 
though straining her eyes into it, could see nothing. When 
they arrived finally, and drove into the enchanted city, its 
wonders were hidden by the dim, gray night of the North. 
From the magic and dazzle that through the twilight had 
shone many-colored on the background of sky, they passed 
to a hotel exceedingly like the others at which they had 
put up. 

It was a death to the child's first illusion. Her companion 
watched her curiously. He noted how the dazzle of expecta- 
tion and wonder died out of her eyes, and how the real, grow- 
ing weariness began to assert itself after the excitement which 
had veiled it for the time. They were together in the hand- 
some, stately saloon — alone, for travellers at this season wero 
few; the short, bright summer of the North was nearly over, 
the evenings were becoming gray, the nights black aad dreary. 
There was a large square black monument in the room they 
occupied that emitted a close heat, and the process of shutting 
out carefiilly all external air had begun. 

L'Estrange seated himself on one of the massive couches 



MOSCOW. 287 

and drew the child to his side. "What is it, petite?" he 
asked as he noted her disappointment. 

" Where is papa ?" she questioned sadly. 

" We shall look for him to-morrow." 

He threw off his hat as he spoke, and the child saw that his 
f-ice was very weary-looking and sad. Fatigue, anxiety and 
want of sleep were gradually taking their effect on his strong 
frame, while the close air of the room in his weak condition 
almost overpowered him. 

"Mon p^re," she said, clinging to him, " how pale you look !" 

He tried to rouse himself: " I am tired, fillette." 

But suddenly the pallor spread till his very lips were 
blanched. He sank back on the couch with a faint moan, 
yet even then the soul of the man was strong enough to con- 
quer partially the physical weakness. He thought of her 
through the pain that was striving to master him ; he saw her 
face of despair, though a film seemed to be gathering over his 
sight, and with a strenuous effort he half raised himself, his 
pale lips parted in a reassuring smile: "I shall be better 
soon — water." 

She brought it to him in a moment, all the woman in her 
risen to meet the emergency, and then she placed a pillow 
under his head and chafed his cold hands. By the time the 
waiter arrived to lay the cloth for dinner L'Estrange was 
better. It was a kind of spasm that had robbed him of his 
power for the moment. He had experienced something of 
this kind before, and it alarmed him ; understanding a little 
about the science of medicine himself, he knew the danger of 
mysterious pains, and he felt that it would not answer for him 
to be laid up until his work was done. 

When dinner was over they went out into the night to- 
gether, and the cool air revived him ; but afterward, when 
real solitude had fallen over everything, and the child had 
been committed to the care of one of the women of the house, 
the fear of what might come quite mastered him. 

L'Estrange was no coward, to shrink from physical pain. 
Whenever it was possible he would escape suffering (though 
perhaps his real horror was rather of mental than physical 
pain) ; when it was impossible he met it like a man. Bui this 
time he felt his frame was weakening. The mental rest he 



288 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

had craved so passionately would never come till his work 
was over, and in the mean time another such paroxysm as the 
one through which he had passed might lay him prostrate. 
In this case what would become of Laura ? How would he 
prove to his wronged Margaret that his intentions with regard 
to her were good and true? 

Even as he thought he felt the pain approaching with 
stealthy creeping, like a thief come to rob him of his power. 
He rose with difficulty from the couch on which he had been 
lying, and opening one of his packages drew from it the 
small medicine-chest he always carried. His hand shook as 
he turned the key, for he knew what he was doing, and had 
it not been for his strange position would have dreaded it far 
more than the physical pain, which he felt it could not cure, 
only put away for a time. For L'Estrange had once been in 
the habit of putting into him this enemy to steal away his 
soul. He had felt then that his intellect was being weakened 
— that his bodily and mental powers were being destroyed ; 
he had fought with the weakness and had conquered it. 

But as he took out the little well-known phial, with its 
dark liquid, once so precious, he felt that another victory 
would be still more dearly bought, and he trembled. 
Necessity, however, is strong and knows no law. While he 
hesitated the pain gained ground. 

Hastily he poured out a strong dose, drank it, and slept a 
heavy, uneasy sleep, broken by dreams and distorted images 
of reality, while through them all the keen finger of pain 
found its way, touching his heart and chilling its warm life. 
But even this semblance of sleep was better than the dismal 
wakefulness. 

He got up better, and found that the pain whose ravages 
he had been dreading had left him. He sighed as he rose. 
An inner consciousness told him it was only for a time. 
Through that day the effects of the potion of the night 
followed him. Even Laura, child as she was, remarked 
the change. There was about her friend a certain languor, 
an absence of vital energy. He could scarcely reuse him- 
self, even to take the steps needful for the accomplishment of 
the object that had brought them so far. 

Toward the next evening, however, the effects of his doM 



MOSCOW. 289 

oegaa to lessen. He regaiued something of liis physical 
energy, aud in the gathering twilight started, without the 
child, for the address of the agent who held the information 
they required. 

Laura had been restless and uneasy during the whole day, 
startled with the slightest noise, watching curiously all who 
came in and went out ; for now that the time, as she believed, 
was very near for her meeting with this unknown father, she 
began to feel vaguely afraid. 

"You are going to find him," she said as her companion 
camo booted and cloaked into the room where she wa.s 
sitting. 

He looked at her earnestly: "And to give up my trea- 
sure." 

She clung to him : " He won't take me away, mou p^re. We 
shall all go home to mamma together." 

Her friend smiled, but he shook his head, and Laura's heart 
sank and the tears filled her eyes. She was too young for all 
this conflict of feeling. L'Estrange felt it with a sudden sense 
of compunction. He tried to comfort her as he would have 
comforted any ordinary child under the circumstances : " No 
doubt it shall be all as my little girl wishes." 

But Laura looked up into his face with those mournful^ 
searching eyes, and then turned away from him. In her 
simplicity she had read the hollowness of his efibrts at con- 
solation, and she was hurt that he should tell her anything 
but the truth. Her friend stooped down to her and took both 
her hands in his : 

" You are a little witch, Laura. What am I to say to you, 
then ?" 

" I don't want you to say what I like," she answered in a 
low, tearful voice ; " I want you to say what is really true." 
And then she began to cry : " I love you, and I love mamma 
— oh, so much ! — and I think I shall love my papa when I 
3ee him. Why can't we all be happy together ?" 

" Why, little wise one ?" He settled his hat upon his brows 
and turned Uway, leaving her unconsoled. "Ask the stars," 
he said from the door, and Laura was left alone to think and 
wonder, for young as she was the shadow that rests evermore 
on things human was closing her in its dark embrace. The 

19 



290 CHASTE AS. ICE, PURE AS SXOW. 

why, the dark mystery of human fate, had already begun in 
her young soul its restless questioning. 

Her friend felt this, and his heart ached for her, but the 
mischief was wrought — he could do nothing. Action was the 
only cure for their common sadness, therefore he would delay 
no longer. Hiring a droshki, he drove through the modern 
Moscow, while ever before him rose that mighty circlet of 
walls and battlements, enclosing its forest of towers, steeples 
and cupolas, gorgeous as an Eastern tale, fantastic as the 
dream of a diseased imagination, that city within a city — the 
Kremlin. 

He was gathering together the forces of his mind, and this 
helped him in his task, for L'Estrange had ever been specially 
alive to the influence of externals. Beauty of form and 
coloring had always been able to sway his moods. This 
mighty monument, by strength formed and endowed, seemed 
to brace his spirit as he looked out upon it and thrilled to the 
memories it enshrined. The great impregnable, before whom 
Napoleon and his legions melted, the strong abode of the 
Muscovite giants — Ivan the Terrible and his court — the 
treasure-house of the Czars, the representative of the history 
of a nation destined to great things, — as he gazed upon it he 
felt the softness leave his heart. He was trying to be great, 
and this monument of human greatness helped him. He 
could not meet his enemy, although his words were to be, in 
a certain sense, peace, with the tender voice of a child ringing 
its sweet sadness into his ears, with the languor of sorrow and 
pain stealing away his strength. 

And gradually as he drove through the shadow'y streets, 
by the walled gardens and stone buildings, with the Kremlin 
rising ever before him in the distance, his mind took a 
stronger tone. Not as the wrong-doer, but as the representa- 
tive of the wronged, he would stand before the man he sought, 
arraigning his enemy for the crime to which, as he well knew, 
his own conduct had lent a colorable pretext. L'Estrange 
could scarcely believe that it was anything but a pretext. 
Margaret's fault, if fault there had been, was so* venial, her 
manner of life after the separation — and L'Estrange was too 
much given to intrigue himself to be able to understand how 
Maurice Grey could know nothing whatever of that — had 



MOSCOW. 291 

been so pure, so single in its aims, that the harshness of her 
husband's judgment became great and vindictive in com- 
parison. 

L'Estrange found it by no means difficult to work himself 
up into a state of suitable indignation, and as he reached the 
door of the house indicated as that of the agent who held the 
knowledge of Maurice Grey's hiding-place, he was once more 
the dark, stern man, strong and self-contained. 

His newly-formed resolutions were not yet destined to be 
fulfilled. Time and distance still separated him from Maurice 
Grey. 

He had gathered from the conversation overheard in the 
Champs Elys^es an approximation to the truth, though some 
diplomacy was necessary before anything could be wormed 
out of the crafty Russian. 

The golden key opened his lips at last, and L'Estrange 
applied it liberally, but with a certain amount of caution, for 
he wished to be sure his information was accurate. 

At last, however, the man was conquered, and perhaps gold 
was not the only or even the most potent agent. After many 
twistings and turnings and sundry circumlocutions, which 
their common tongue, the French language, so supple and 
delicate, could ably render, the wily Russian told his visitor 
all he wanted to know. The English milord — so he styled 
Maurice, probably because his pockets were well lined — had 
been in Moscow, but had only remained there two days. He 
had put up at his house, for he and the Englishman had met 
before, and their relations one with the other were of the 
most friendly character ; also, Mr. Grey disliked hotels : for 
some reason he had seemed to desire the incognito. Monsieur 
had unfolded to his friend his intention of wandering, and 
under these circumstances had appeared to be in some per- 
plexity about his letters, which he wished sent to another 
add]-ess than his own. He (M. Petrovski) had come to the 
help of monsieur (his readiness to help travellers, more espe- 
cially, perhaps, the English, had always been very great), 
proposing that all communication with England should be 
carried on through himself. 

He did not say that as he was a kind of property-agent 
thi« was altogether in his line of business, and that for every* 



292 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

thing he did he waa amply paid. Probably the Russian 
thought it well to leave something to the imagination. And 
in this he was wise. L'Estrange's imagination was all-em- 
bracing, in his species more especially. He understood the 
position at once, and added so largely to the profit on tho 
transaction — demonstrated so clearly how in the whole matter 
he would be a gainer — that the Russian's tongue, as by a 
species of intoxication, wagged more freely than ever. 

His small black eyes glittering above his hawk-like nose 
and long, dark beard — ^he was a Russian Jew — he proceeded 
to assure his guest that nothing but his full assurance of the 
fact that only friendliness was intended to his dear friend 
Monsieur Grey would have persuaded him to open his lips on 
the subject. 

And L'Estrange entering into his motives and approving 
heartily of his reticence, he showed his sincerity by leading 
him to a little side-window which commanded the ante-room, 
and bidding him look out carefully without allowing himself 
to be seen. 

L'Estrange obeyed. He looked out, and treasured up what 
he saw for further use. 

It was a large, bare room, containing only a table and two 
or three chairs. On one of these, in full relief, for the light 
from a small oil-lamp shone on his face, sat a young man. 
He was evidently English, and very young, almost a boy, for 
his face was clean shaven and his short fair hnir curled over 
a broad, open brow, upon which time had as yet written no 
wrinkles. But what L'Estrange chiefly remarked in those 
few moments of intense study was this : the earnestness of his 
face, the purpose that shone out of his eyes, the manliness of 
his bearing and attitude. 

He turned from the window to find out how it was that this 
young Englishman had been shown to him so mysteriously, 
and the Russian, who had been observing him narrowly, took 
him by the arm : " The young man has come by appointment 
on the same errand as yourself: apparently he is very anxious 
— for some time since he has pestered me with letters. Mark 
my confidence. I ask you how I am to treat him?" 

For a moment L'Estrange was perplexed, then suddenly 
came back to his mind the remembrance of the lawyer's let- 



MOSCOW. 293 

tcr. This was Margaret's messenger. He looked out again. 
Pei-luips the manliness of the young face pleased him ; per- 
haps he saw in this strange search an access to his strength — • 
an instrument that he might use to confirm the absolute truth- 
fulness of what he was about to tell the mistaken husband ; 
perhaps he had a certain compunction at the idea of sending 
on a fruitless search this young, disinterested champion of the 
woman who seemed to win all hearts. Whatever might bo 
the cause, the effect of his second look was this. He turned 
from the window with a half smile : " Tell him what you have 
told me, my good friend, but keep him about here for some 
days." 

The Russian bowed his assent, and after a few more courteous 
words preceded his visitor to the door. How had L'Estrange 
obtained this power over a nature so mercenary? Not by 
money alone, for others could hold out the same inducement 
— Arthur had been ready to pour out gold at his feet — nor 
indeed altogether by his superior diplomacy, though that no 
doubt had contributed to bring about the result. 

That there are certain men who have an extraordinary 
power over their fellows is indisputable. Strength of purpose 
and character may be an element in the formation of this 
power, but it is not altogether alone. Such knowledge of the 
workings of the human mind as L'Estrange had gained by 
means of keen observation and long study of his fellows is 
perhaps the strongest element of all. For L'Estrange knew 
how to take men, what chord to strike in their natures, often 
Bt range and complex, to make them answer to his hand — how 
to render them actually desirous of doing his will. 



294 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

CHAPTER V. 
A GLIMPSE OF MARGARET'S CHILD. 

To look upon the fair face of a child 
Feels like a resurrection of the heart. 
Children are vast in blessings ; kings and queens 
According to the dynasties of love. 

Artiiue, then, had found his way to Moscow. Aflci day? 
of wandering, after vain efforts to entrap the wily Russian 
into sending him by letter the information he desired, after 
keen and hungry searching in the English quarter of every 
city through which he had passed, he had gained the dim me- 
tropolis of the North, but only to be forestalled, to have a 
watch set upon his movements, to play into the hands of the 
man for whom, in his youthful enthusiasm, he cherished the 
bitterest contempt, the most undying enmity. 

Perhaps under any circumstances it would have been im- 
possible for the impulsive, straightforward young Englishman, 
headlong in his pursuits, whether good or evil, to understand 
the complex, two-sided nature of such a man as L'Estrange. 
Knowing what he did of him, it is scarcely a matter of sur- 
prise that he felt his strong young arm tingle at times to fell 
him to the earth, and if he should never rise again, so much 
the better — there would be one villain the less in the world. 
All he desired was to meet him face to face. 

But Margaret had laid her commands upon him. Hia 
enemy, her enemy, was to be respected. The remembrance of 
her words made Arthur tremble, for in the holy indignation 
of his youth he felt that if they should meet it would be 
difficult to restrain himself from dealing the well-merited 
blow. 

He consoled himself with the reflection thit words have 
power to slay. And words were ready on his lips for the dis- 
turber of Margaret's peace, the maker of her misery, which 
in his inexperience he believed must go to the heart of the 
worst villain that ever lived. 

Arthur did not confine his search to Maurice. Wherever 
he went strict inquiry had been instituted for the dark 



A GLIMPSE OF MARGARET'S CHILP. 295 

foreigner and fair-haired English child. At Paris, as has 
been already seen, his agent was upon the traces of the pair. 
There they had been lost altogether, for L'Estrange's ruse 
had succeeded, and never again had Arthur or the agent he 
employed been able to recover them. 

The only consolation that could be derived from the chance 
encounter in the Champs Elys^es was in the relation that ap- 
peared to exist between the child and this man. He was 
evidently kind to her, for the agent, who reported their con- 
versation accurately, told of her indignation when he so fool- 
ishly began to abuse her friend, and also of her little cry of 
delight when she saw him reappear. 

In the long letter which Arthur was writing to Middle* 
thorpe that evening he related this incident, scarcely knowing 
whether or no it would be a comfort to the bereaved mother 
— whether she would fear the strange influence which this 
man seemed to have acquired over her child, or be thankful 
that at least he was treating her kindly. In any case, of one 
blessed fact she might rest assured — for the child's companion 
had been seen, and dark as the night was the agent had recog- 
nized the original of Margaret's miniature — her husband was 
innocent of this last, this bitterest wrong and humiliation. He 
had not removed his child from her care. The letter was ad- 
dressed to Adele, but it was written for Margaret. It told of 
that evening's interview, of his wanderings up to that moment 
and of his further hopes. 

He had ascertained Maurice Grey's hiding-place — that is 
to say, the address was promised — but days of travelling 
would probably be necessary before he could reach it. 
Arthur, however, was full of courage and hope. He looked 
upon the success of his enterprise as only delayed, not put 
from him altogether. And his young, strong spirit of devo- 
tion shone out in every line of the letter which was to find the 
two lonely women watching and hoping — their trust in him. 
To know this was enough to brace the young man's mind, to 
drain him of self-love, to make and keep him strong and 
pure. 

He was in the heat of composition that evening (it must be 
confessed, in spite of Arthur's literary dreams, the pen was 
not his strong point), laboring to express enough, ai*4 not to<7 



296 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

much, of the hope his partial success had generated in his 
laiud — to give his friends new courage without buoying them 
ap with false hope ; striving to give his devotion to Margaret 
the delicate expression that might mean what it really was, 
and yet not offend or alarm her ; trying to consider duly the 
feelings of his cousin and future wife — to prevent her from 
being in auy way hurt by his absorption in that which con- 
cerned another ; and through it all making his travels and 
adventures appear in the most interesting and favorable 
light. 

The combination was anything but easy, and once or twice 
Arthur threw down his pen in despair. To frame a letter 
satisfactory in every way seemed a hopeless task. On one of 
these occasions, as he was casting his eyes round the room for 
inspiration, he was startled by the sound of the door being 
softly opened. He looked round. A little girl, dressed for 
travelling, was standing on the threshold and looking at him 
earnestly. When she saw his face a cloud came over hers, 
and she looked very much inclined to cry, 

Arthur got up and went to the door, the kindliness of his 
nature aroused by the sight of the child's distress. She threw 
off her hood then, and shaking back her golden curls showed 
him one of the loveliest child-faces he had ever seen ; but it 
was not its loveliness that made him start back with a sudden 
exclamation ; it was a memory which that face recalled. 

In a moment he gathered his ideas together — where had 
he seen her before? — and then, with the rapidity of thought, 
that last evening in England, Margaret, the miniature, the 
child's likeness, came before his mind. Fate had been kind 
to him. Margaret's treasure was within his grasp. 

Unfortunately, the idea agitated him so much that he could 
scarcely act with the necessary coolness. 

Laura had come into his room by mistake- She had lost 
her way in the great house, and was looking for her friendj 
whose room, though in another wing of the building, resem- 
bled in position that which Arthur occupied. 

Already the child was alarmed by his sudden exclamation. 
She retreated hastily to the door, but Arthur caught her by 
the arm and tried forcibly to detain her. 

Then Laura really cried, and the young man, between liis 



A GLIMPSE OF MARGARET'S CHILD. 297 

earnest desire to secure lier aud his distress at her tears, 
scarcely knew how to act. He tried gentleness, coaxing her 
by all kinds of bribes to remain with him, only for a few 
minutes ; but the child grew the more frightened ; cryiiig 
bitterly, she tried with all her small strength to loosen his 
grasp on her arm. It was in vain, and Laura in her despair 
called aloud for help : •' Mon pere ! mon p6re !" 

Arthur began to think they had all been mistaken, that 
her father had actually taken her away, but he had scarcely 
time to come to any conclusion, for as he was still struggling 
with the child, drawing her into the room with gentle entreaty, 
there came a dark figure into the gloomy, unlit passage. 
x'^rthur was too much absorbed to see him ; Laura did, and 
with a sudden wrench she tore herself free from the young 
man's grasp. The strong right arm of her friend received 
her, while before the young man could recover from his sur- 
prise (he was at the moment stooping forward to catch the 
small retreating form) the left hand thrust him back with 
such violence that he fell, and lay at full length on the floor 
of his room. Before he could leap to his feet he had the 
mortification of hearing the key turned in the lock, and of 
knowing that as his room was in a remote part of the house, 
Laura and her protector, whoever that protector might be, 
would have time during his forced inaction to put at least 
some of the tortuous streets of old Moscow between themselves 
and his pursuit. 

Arthur's position was ignominious in the extreme, and very 
difficult of explanation. Rubbing his bruised shins, he 
thought over it woefully. But thinking would not mend 
matters. He rang the bell violently. 

No one came. Probably his violence defeated its own 
object. A long hour passed, in which, his letter forgotten, he 
paced the floor of his room, stamping and fuming like ar im- 
prisoned lion. 

At last a waiter came. He was a Russian, naturally rather 
timorous, to whom even French was an unknown tongue; 
and Arthur, from the other side of the locked door, had great 
difiiculty in making him understand in what consisted the 
obstruction to its opening. , 

To tell the truth, his stamping and fumiiig and stormy ges 



298 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

twees of impatience had alarmed the poor man considerably. 
He had always possessed a strong opinion about the violence 
of the English character, and it was only with many an in- 
ward tremor that, seeing the thing was inevitable, he slowly 
turned the key in the lock and released the young man from 
his prison. 

His alarm was almost justified by Arthur's subsequent 
behavior. The delay, the ignominious failure, the blow from 
the hand of the man he so keenly despised, had nearly mad- 
dened the unfortunate young Englishman. Thrusting the 
waiter to one side with such violence that he staggered back 
against the wall of the passage, Arthur rushed down the wide 
staircase, three steps at a time, and demanded an interview 
with the proprietor of the hotel. 

The head man waited upon him, respectful in attitude, 
fluent in speech, but chuckling inwardly at the Englishman's 
discomfiture. 

L'Estrange had given his explanation of the little scene, 
and it had been by the order of the head-waiter himself that 
the young man had been detained so long in his prison. 

The flood of bad French in which Arthur poured out his 
indignation was listened to with quiet deprecation, and an- 
swered by a multitude of well-turned apologies ; but when the 
young man moderated his tone, and began to think prudence 
would be advisable if he wished to get anything from the 
people of the house about the movements of those who had 
escaped him, he could scarcely be surprised that diplomacy, 
bribery and a harrowing tale of wrong proved alike unavail- 
ing. He was obliged to give up the efibrt in despair. Through 
all the polite assurances, the smooth phrases, the courteous 
attention of the head- waiter he could read incredulity and 
indifference. 

Arthur spent that night in haunting the railway-stations to 
extract information from the olQicials, and in knocking up the 
drivers of droshkies, trying to make them understand that he 
wished to find out whom they had driven that evening. It 
was hopeless. They were very civil ; Arthur made it worth 
their while to be communicative. They were ready with 
highly-colored accounts of their passengers of the evening, 
but amongst them all he could find none answering to the 



A GLIMPSE OF MARGARETS CHILD. 299 

description of those he sought. He returned to the totel 
baffled and worn-out, longing to leave Moscow at once (the 
hotel and the smooth-faced head-waiter had become so utterly 
distasteful to him), but detained by an interview for the fol- 
lowing day. M. Petrovski had promised him some further 
details about the residence of his client. He professed t'j ex- 
pect letters which would let him know the Englishman's final 
resting-place. 

That letter whose commencement had caused Arthur such 
pleasant tremors of anxiety was abruptly concluded. He 
could not make up his mind to relate to his friends in all its 
ignominious details the incident of that evening, although he 
longed to let Margaret know that he had actually seen and 
held her child. Several times he even tried to frame an ac- 
count of this his first meeting with the little one, but always 
in vain. He sent off" the letter as it was, and curses not loud 
but deep followed the swiftly-retreating enemy who had foiled 
him. 

L'Estrange did not altogether deserve them. He had pur- 
posely treated the young man gently. He might have dealt 
him a far severer blow, but that glimpse of his face had 
taught the man of the world something about his character 
and purposes, had made him respect the boy, and so long as 
he did not interfere with himself he was ready to spare him. 
Laura, however, and her share in the task of restoring the 
wanderer to his home and wife, L'Estrange reserved to him- 
self. He would bring her forward at his own time, and in 
the mean while he would show this young man, brave with 
the temerity of youth, that his guardianship, if tenacious, 
was strong. 

Laura had acted instinctively in the occurrence of the 
evening, but when it was over, when she and her protector 
were once more in the train, travelling rapidly southward, 
she was agitated at the remembrance of what had passed. 

" Mon p^re," she said, clinging to him fearfully, " why do 
they all try to take me away from you ?" 

He looked down at her earnestly : " Because they know not 
how much I love thee." 

The child clasped her hands : " I hope, oh I hope, papa 
will know." 



300 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

"Why, Laura?" 

" Because then he won't wish to take me away." 

" But you, ma belle enfant — you will wish to go back with 
your father. Is it not so ?" 

"Back to mamma?" said the child. "'Oh yes, mon pfere, 
but you must go too." 

He looked down upon her with a sudden pain in his eyes : 
" Kiss me, fillette, put your arms round my neck. There, so 
— it is easier noAV. Little wise one, what shall I do without 
thee?" 

Laura did not answer, only with her gentle womanly ways 
she soothed her friend, Avhile in her small heart rose a certain 
determination. It was this. Not even for her father would 
she leave her friend. He should go back with them to her 
mother, for her mother could do him good. It was the deter- 
mination of a woman, for a woman's tenderness and depth of 
feeling were becoming prematurely developed in the young 
girl, who would never perhaps in all her life be a thoughtless 
( hild again. Had she gained or lost by the exchange ? It 
was for the future to say. 

But my readers will be impatient ; and truly it seems that 
in looking back on this strange story, which the past has 
evolved out of its mists, an undue prominence has been given 
to this part. It has been altogether unconsciously done, and 
only because of the enchaining nature of the subject. 

There was something so touching in the confidence and 
affection of this innocent child's heart, that with the instincts 
of truth itself found beauty where others might have only 
been able to find its opposite ; there was something so beauti- 
ful in the surrender of the strong man's soul to the guiding 
influence of the poor child, in whose tenderness the heavenly 
side of him had read a possibility of salvation for his whole 
nature ; and in all the sweet mystery there was so evidently 
pr3sentthe working of an unseen Power, preparing this man, 
who had missed his right aim in the world, for the reception 
of a pure ideal, for the vision of undying truth. Time 
presses. We must linger no more over the tender scenes that 
marked the intercourse between Laura and her strange pro- 
tector, but pass on our way, leaving them together. 

On the following day, while Laura and L'Estrange were 



A GLIMPSE OF MARGARET'S CHILD. 301 

putting vast tracts of country between themselves and the an- 
cient city of Moscow, Arthur Forrest, jaded and worn-out by 
a sleepless night, and considerably discouraged at the total 
failure of this his first efibrt to restore Margaret to her own, 
prepared himself for another interview with Petrovski. 

He wished to be calm and cool, for what, he said to him- 
self, if he were to be sent on a fool's errand ? — what if the 
man who had dealt him that mysterious blow could have 
been really Laura's father ? He found it difficult on such a 
supposition to assign a motive for his conduct, unless indeed 
he could have heard of his search, and have believed he was 
simply an agent sent by his wife to entice the child back to 
her. On the other hand, what could have led L'Estrange, if 
it should be he, to Moscow ? 

Arthur was very much perplexed. He determined to call 
the calmest, clearest judgment to his aid in sifting the infor- 
mation which the agent was ready to proffer. Alas ! when 
did an old head sit upon young shoulders ? If ever they have 
been united, the combination has not produced such a pleas- 
ing whole as Arthur Forrest, who, in spite of the knowledge 
of this world on which he prided himself, was above all things 
young and confiding. 

Petrovski might have deceived him, might have sent him 
to the antipodes, if he had seen fit, but his master in the art 
of dissimulation had advised him to be truthful. Arthur, 
therefore, after some days' delay, was told the simple truth — 
that Maurice Grey, disgusted with his life in St. Petersburg, 
had made up his mind to turn his back on society altogether. 
With this view he had sought the mountains, and had es- 
tablished himself, one servant his only companion, in a chalet 
hastily fitted up with a few necessaries in one of the higher 
Swiss valleys. 

The agent professed to have just received letters from this 
remote point. In them Mr. Grey had directed that his 
money and business-letters from England should be sent to the 
hotel nearest to his temporary home, and this was the address 
which was given to Arthur, which had previously been given 
to L'Estrange. 

By the following night's mail Arthur left Moscow. As 
may well be supposed, he lost no time on the way. 



302 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Of this strange flight through almost the entire breadth of 
Europe he never thought afterward save in the light of a 
feverish dream. It seemed like a vision. Sleeping and waking 
he was flying still, with all manner of various impressions, 
rcultitudes of scenes and strange faces, flitting before him like 
a kind of phantasmagoria. Glimpses of grand cities, ap- 
pearing but to vanish, vast solitudes, uncultivated and barren 
wastes, mountain-country and soft pastoral scenes passed be- 
fore him in an ever-varying succession. At last the train had to 
be left behind ; he had gained the mountains, and with them 
a mode of travelling that seemed painfully slow and weari- 
some to his brain, in a whirl with swift movement and tumult- 
uous thought. 

Arthur was haunted through those long days, and, strange 
to say, it was not Margaret's face that haunted him, nor even 
that of his gentle cousin who was pining in distant England 
for his return. The lovely child's face followed him day 
after day and night after night. It reminded him of failure, 
brought back in vivid colors the memory of what he looked 
upon as a species of ignominy, and yet, do what he Avould, he 
could not banish it. The bright golden hair, the dark mourn- 
ful eyes, the fair contour, the childish grace returned again 
and again. 

At times it was like a nightmare. He would see the child, 
even touch her, and as he touched her she would vanish. 
Once or twice during those long nights of travelling Arthur 
seriously interfered with the comfort of his fellow-voyagers 
by his strange proceedings. Reaching forward at one time, he 
would seize upon the hand or knee of the person who sat in 
front of him, laying himself open, if the individual were of 
the feminine order, to serious misconception — if of the mascu- 
line, to a rude rebujQf and rough awakening ; at another he 
would passionately grasp the window-blind, giving rise to an 
irresistible titter among those of his companions who did not 
find sleeping in a train such easy work as he did. But when- 
ever Laura's face came before his mind, in sleeping or waking 
. moments, Arthur looked at it with a strange reverence. T« 
him it was scarcely a child's face. It seemed almost as if 
behind the fairness and beauty there was a meaning. 

Arthur could not analyze character. He did not suf- 



A GLIMPSE OF MARGARET'S CHILD. 303 

lisiently understand human nature's diversity to be able to 
explain to himself why this child was so different from other 
children, but he felt it ; and stronger almost than his longing 
to restore Maurice Grey to faith in his wife's perfections be- 
came his desire to rescue that child from him who had taken 
her, he firmly believed, with some bad motive, and to lead her 
back to her mother. 

The strange thing was that she loved this man (for Petrov- 
eki had so impressed Arthur with a belief in his veracity that 
once more he had settled with himself the identity of Laura's 
companion). Could it be, then, that there was some good 
even in him ? But Arthur would not follow out this line of 
reasoning. He was more than ever confirmed in his hatred 
of L'Estrange. 

" There is something in the Bible," he said to himself, 
"about Satan putting on the form of an angel of light. This 
man has only followed the example of his forerunner in all 
Bvil. He is deceiving the innocent darling, and she thinks 
him good." 

He was driving in an open sledge — for the season was late 
and snow had begun to fall on the mountains — when these 
thoughts crowded in upon his brain. 

It was tolerably cold in these high latitudes, but the young 
man was wrapped up in a fur-lined travelling cloak, the thick 
leather apron of the sledge covered his knees, and a cigar 
emitting fragrant blue clouds, whose ascent into the pure air 
he watched curiously, was between his lips. 

Arthur Forrest had not been bred in Belgravia altogether 
in vain. He understood very thoroughly how to make him- 
self comfortable. 

In this thing he considered himself fortunate. The crowd 
of Britons that yearly fill the Swiss solitudes with their all- 
engrossing presence had fled at the first breath of winter, 
■' like doves to their windows." 

Two or three hardy Swiss returning to their mountains, an 
adventurous German desirous of studying the aspect of Switz- 
erland in winter, a Pole who wished to put the mountains, 
soon to be an almost impassable barrier, between himself and 
his enemies, the vigilant and all-powerful Russian police, — 
these, with a conductor and driver, formed the whole of th(i 



304 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Bmall cavalcade that crossed the St. Gothard on this bleak 
autumnal day. 

In spite of the glorious scenes through which they had beeu 
passing, the beauty of Italy rising into the grand desolation 
of the country that belongs to the snow-kingdom, and that 
again descending into the awful grandeur of rugged preci- 
pices, hissing torrents and shaggy pines, the little party was* 
gloomy. The Pole shivered, and folding his fur-cloak around 
him cursed the ancestral enemies of his race; the Swiss rubbed 
their hands, stamped their feet and looked defiantly at a 
threatening storm-cloud that was rising up behind them ; the 
German tried to get up a shadow of enthusiasm. He stared, 
with what was meant to be earnestness, through his specta- 
cles, emitted a series of " wunderschons and wunderhiibschs," 
and strove dutifully to think that this was seeing life and 
entering sympathetically into Nature's most secret joys — the 
joy of the torrent, the delight of the snow-whirl. Perhaps it 
was scarcely matter for surprise that his enthusiasm left rather 
a dreary effect upon the minds of his companions, 

Arthur was the only one who really enjoyed, for this was 
novelty to him, and in his fashionable life he had long been 
craving for something out of the common. Then, too, there 
was about this kind of travelling a certain necessity for en- 
durance which braced his nerves. He was doing this for 
Margaret, and as each keen blast of wind, sweeping with 
biting force from the ice-fields, touched his young face, he 
felt the blood tingle in his veins. He was full of satisfaction^ 
strong to endure. 

With an Englishman's insight into possibilities he had for- 
gotten nothing that could possibly conduce to an approxima- 
tion to comfort in such a situation as that in which he found 
himself. This being so, he was able to enter more thoroughly 
into Nature's strange caprices, as exhibited in this land of 
wonders, than the sentimental German, who shivered in a 
threadbare coat. For — there can be no doubt about it — 
physical comfort frees the mind : when the body is irritated 
by discomfort, the mind, sympathetic, is occupied by itself. 

In the intervals of meditation on his plans and further at- 
tempts for Margaret, and efforts to take in and write upon his 
brain some at least of the wonderful combinations of form 



A GLIMPSE OF MARGARET'S CHILD. 305 

and coloring througli which they were passing, Arthur looked 
with a dreamy philosophy at his fellow-travellers. 

The young man was inclined, from the depths of his mag- 
nificent cloak, to wonder lazily why Providence had bestowed 
the world's allowance of common sense upon our nation. The 
expei-ience of foreigners which he had been gaining during 
those weeks of travelling had only confirmed Arthur in his 
preconceived idea. One and all they were absurd. The ab- 
surdities might differ in kind and degree — this the young man 
would not attempt to deny — and no doubt there were clever 
people among them ; still, as a rule, were they to be com- 
pared to Englishmen? 

He looked at the sturdy, commonplace Swiss, the shivering 
Pole (only half a man he pronounced him), the sentimental 
German, trying so conscientiously to enjoy, and with a feeling 
of self-gratulation that actually helped to send a warm glow 
through his frame answered the question by a decided nega- 
tive. No wonder they pronounced the young Englishman 
supercilious; he had intended to be very condescending. 
From the heights of his superior nationality it was so easy to 
look with a calm pity upon those who had been less highly 
favored by Nature. It need scarcely be considered matter 
for surprise that they regarded his condescension in another 
light, and Avere inclined to repel his spasmodic eflforts to be 
very pleasant and friendly. 

All the travellers were glad when the foot of the mountain 
was reached. Even the indefatigable Arthur, when he found 
himself so near his destination, thought it well to take a 
night's rest at Amsteg, where he broke ofi' from the St. 
Gothard route for Meyringen and Grindelwald. It was 
somewhere between these two places that the chalet occupied 
by Maurice Grey was supposed to be situated. 

Once in the neighborhood, the young man felt that it would 
not be difficult to find it. The very fact of a stranger having 
made for himself a lonely habitation in the mountains would 
be sufficient to render his home a celebrated place. 

Arthur's only difficulty now was what it had been at York 

before his interview with Margaret — the framing of some 

reason which might account for his seeming intrusiveness 

He formed a thousand plans. He would wander in the direr- 

20 



•3C<5 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

tion of the chalet, he would put himself in the position of a 
benighted traveller thrown on the hospitality of the hermit ; 
finally, he determined to torment himself no longer — Fate 
would perhaps befriend him as before. That evening Arthur 
sent another letter to Margaret and his cousin. There was 
not much in it of the impressions which the grand scenes 
among which he was sojourning had written on his mind, but 
it held a courage and hope that might inspire the lonely wife 
and bereaved mother with a kindred sentiment. 

Arthur was an inexperienced traveller, and the plan of his 
route had been principally traced in obedience to the sugges- 
tions of the few English people he had met. It is more than 
possible, therefore, that the route chosen was not the most 
direct ; for although it had not been possible for L'Estrange 
in any way to emulate his swiftness in travelling (he was 
obliged to suit himself to Laura's capabilities), yet on that 
night when, from the small village in the valleys, Arthur 
sent his second letter to Margaret, the child and her protector 
were already at the address given by Petrovski, in the close 
vicinity of the child's father, of her friend's most bitter and 
unrelenting enemy. She was utterly unconscious of the 
strange position, though a change had come over her in those 
last days of travelling. There was about her even more of 
the sedateness of the thoughtful woman, still less of the child's 
merry unconcern. For the shadows that had threatened this 
young life's joy were gathering thickly around her. She was 
in the centre of emotions too strong, of a life too earnest, for 
her tender youth, and her friend saw with concern how the 
color faded from her face, how her brow grew transparent, 
how the quiet gestures of a woman became more and more 
habitant. 

But he could do nothing ; the mischief had been wrought 
in that hour when his passion had overpowered his judgment, 
when he had consummated the rash deed of taking a tender 
little one from the mother's fostering care. He had done 
what he could to obviate the evil, and in the interval the child 
had grown dear to him as his own soul. This it was that 
added a tenfold poignancy to the pain with which L'Estrange 
sometimes looked at her. 

Once or twice in the course of this later journey L'Estrangfl 



A GLIMPSE OF MARGARET'S CHILD. 307 ' 

liad further accesses of the pain he dreaded, and more than 
once he had been forced to resort to his kindly enemy, en- 
trancing opium, to stay his fierce pangs for a time. It pro- 
duced its true efiect upon him. Moments he had of joys too 
great for earth — moments when his imagination played freely, 
when his heart expanded, when all the dark places of his 
past life's journey were irradiated with a golden light, and 
when the growing uneasiness of the present strangeness and 
the certain future pain passed into calm security and pleasant 
rosy dreams. But the false potion brought other moments in 
its train — moments when his whole being seemed weak and 
nerveless, when deep depression possessed his soul, when even 
the higher life and nobler possibilities of existence which he 
had been learning in the child's pure presence became to his 
languid soul unattainable as the dreams of a weak visionary. 

At such times he would sit with folded arras and knit brows 
looking out and away to the far stretches of horizon that were 
fleeing evermore before them. Only the child had power to 
arouse him from one of these gloomy fits of abstraction, 
though sometimes his mood was so dark that even she scarcely 
ventured to break in upon it. But she never really feared 
him ; there was a strange sympathy between the two that 
made her understand him in some wonderful way. 

As they neared the end of their journey and rest became a 
possibility, L'Estrange once more tried to refrain from his 
death-winged potion. He felt that languor and weakness 
were possessing themselves of his being, and strength of mind 
would be more needful than strength of body for the work he 
had to do. 

Only those who have known what this refraining means cau 
understand his sufferings. Racked with pain, that reckless 
gnawing pain which seems to be verily eating into life, he lay 
for two nights and days on a bed in the hotel at Grindclwald, 
where he had decided to remain for a few days. And still 
during the long hours the patient child, his ministering angel 
in very truth, sat by his bedside helping her friend to bear, 
and waiting for him to be better. 



•308 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNO W. 

CHAPTER VI. • 

THE LIFE OF A SOLITARY. ^ 

And soon we feel the want of one kind heart 
To love what's well, and to forgive what's ill 
In us. 

Maurice Grey had at last been successful in his weary 
aeeking after loneliness. Whether he had gained happiness 
thereby is scarcely so easy to say ; certainly his surroundings 
could not possibly have been more beautiful or peace-inspir- 
ing. 

On an Alpine meadow green with a vivid brightness, 
spangled in the spring and early summer with many-colored 
fragrant flowers, bounded on one side by a wood, the home of 
ferns and moss and lovely things of every shape and hue, 
overtopped on the other by a ridge of mountains that, rising 
sheer from the soft greenness, towered into white ice-fields and 
shoulders and pinnacles of virgin snow, he had found in the 
summer of that year a tumble-down chalet. It was large and 
tolerably commodious, evidently intended to be something 
superior to the ordinary dwelling of the Swiss herdsman. 

Maurice Grey was tired of hotel-life when he came upon 
this treasure trove. Life in the mountains, with the constant 
companionship of ignorant tourists, would-be enthusiasts and 
blase fashionables (for Maurice, though touched and charmed 
by Nature's beauty, had not arrived at the higher point of 
seeing beauty in humanity), was scarcely the life of solitude 
he had been seeking. 

In the inane vapidity of travellers' talk all the impressions 
which Nature's loveliness had been writing on his soul seemed 
to pass into cynicism and irritability. He would get away 
from the charmed circle — he would break loose once and for 
ever from the galling fetters with which his kind would chain 
him. This chalet was the very thing to suit him. He had 
come upon it in the course of a long, solitary ramble which 
was taking him into ground untrodden apj^arently by the or- 
dinary tourist. It led to no point of special interest, there 
was nothing remarkable to distinguish it from thousands of 



IHE LIFE OF A SOLITARY. 309 

Alpiue meadows in the vicinity, it was intersected by no 
well-frequented path. 

Maurice Grey set inquiries on foot. He found that the 
neglected chalet had been intended for a small pension ; that 
the proprietor, who was a farmer, had sustained an unexpected 
loss in cattle, and had thus been unable to complete and fur- 
nish it ; that he would be only too delighted to let it on very 
moderate terms to any one who would take the trouble of 
making it habitable. 

On the very next day Maurice found out the farmer, and 
an arrangement was entered into highly to the satisfaction of 
both. It took a very short time to fit up the small abode, or 
two rooms on the ground floor, with the few articles an Eng- 
lishman would find necessary — a wooden bed and a large 
bath, a table and chair, one leather-backed arm-chair, rough 
shelves with a selection of books that he had ordered in one 
of the German towns through which he had passed, writing- 
materials and his beloved pipe, sole companion of his 
solitude. 

These were all, save the kitchen utensils, which his new 
servant, a German who could do everything, had procured 
for him, and with these Maurice Grey settled down to a her- 
mit's life. It was scarcely the life to suit him. There was 
too much vigor and manhood in his frame, too many cravings 
in the heart he had thought dead, for the death-in-life of one 
cut oS from the society of his fellows to be bearable for any 
length of time. During the long hours of the day, when 
even his servant was absent seeking at the nearest village for 
the daily necessaries of their life, Maurice Grey, the sociable, 
lively Englishman, would sit like a patriarch at the door of 
his tent and look out — not on his children and children's 
children playing on the green sward, but on the savage grand- 
eur of the mountains, on shaggy pines rising head above 
head like a great army on the hillside, on the flash of tor- 
rents, their fall scarcely heard in the far distance, scattering 
their white foam into the sunshine, on radiant ice-rivers sweep- 
ing down between dark gray rocks. And the wonder entered 
into his soul. But the illusion faded, for, all grand and glor- 
ious as it was, there was yet in it nothing to lay hold upon 
the heart or satisfy its wants. 



310 CHASTE AS £CE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Sometimes the stillness would grow so oppressive that even 
the tinkling of the cattle-bells, notifying the approach of the 
sleepy, quiet animal, would be a relief to the man's brain 
And then he would rush into the wood. There was sound 
enough there — the rustling of leaves, the chirping of grass- 
hoppers, the movement and ceaseless murmur of life 'various 
and multiform. 

At times Maurice Grey would enjoy it, but not always, for 
in the midst of this rich profusion of Nature his was a life 
apart. More than once he was mortified, even in those first 
days, when solitude had a certain novelty, to discover how 
instinctively his step would quicken and his heart grow 
lighter when in the evening, his hour for dinner drawing 
near, he could look forward to seeing at the door of his chalet 
the familiar face of his servant and only companion. He 
was too proud, however, to betray himself even to Karl, and 
m spite of everything was determined to persevere. He 
would give the new life a fair trial. Happily, Maurice had 
a resource in his pen. In his youth he had cherished ambi- 
tious dreams of distinguishing himself in the world of letters. 
In these hours of solitude the desire returned — not, indeed, 
with a like force, for the cry of the miserable, the cui bono f 
of a sick soul, was at the heart of it. 

If the grandeur of Nature could inspire him with high 
thoughts — if as a poet he could breathe out any one of these, 
sending it forth a living image of beauty into the world — why 
and for whom should he do it ? For men and women ? For 
their enjoyment, their false praise? Maurice Grey, as it will 
be seen, had not lost his cynicism in his solitude. But he 
wrote as he had never written before. He transcribed his 
strange, wild dreams that were formed in the ice-caverns, and 
clothed the woods and hills with legends, dismal, gloomy, 
awe-inspiring, that had drunk from the bitter waters of his 
cwn dark soul. 

As days and weeks passed on that soul grew darker. Even 
the faithful Karl, who was strongly attached to his English 
master, began to fear his strange moods and wonder vaguely 
at his caprices, recalling the weird marchen that had fed his 
boyhood in his Black Forest home — of men haunted with the 
spirit of evil, condemned to wander for ever, seeking rest and 



THE LIFE OF A SOLITARY. 311 

finding none ; of ghosts that had taken to themselves a fleshly 
home, and living with human beings had been considered 
human themselves, till the dark fear of betraying their origin 
in some unwary moment had driven them to the wilds, there 
to batten on horrors till the startled flesh should forsake, once 
and for ever, the naked, shivering ghost. 

Karl grew afraid of his own shadow. Indeed, only h\k 
visits (and he took care they should be of daily recurrence) 
to inhabited places kept him sane and capable. So absolute 
is the truth, old as humanity itself, that " it is not well for 
man to dwell alone." 

For Maurice Grey where was the helpmate to be found ? 
Not upon earth, if perfection such as he sought in his lofty 
idealism was to be its necessary accompaniment. He had 
broken his idol for a flaw in its fair whiteness, and what won- 
der that he found it difiicult — nay, impossible — to replace it? 

Not that Maurice, to do him justice, had ever sought to 
replace his idol by any creature outside of him in the world 
of men and women. It may be, however, that his dream was 
wilder and more vain. For he looked within instead of 
without — looked to the poor trembling self for that satisfac- 
tion and peace which life with one who was (though he had 
not known it) verily his other self, by reason of her tender- 
ness and warm womanly sympathy, might have brought him. 

Maurice and Margaret had been alike wrong in this, that 
they had sought in the transitory and fleeting what is im- 
palpable and enduring. Happiness springs not from the dust, 
and happiness abiding is only to be found outside of ourselves, 
outside of humanity, outside even of the world. 

This they were learning, the husband and wife, each in the 
secret place of a stricken heart — learning it with stormy seas 
and vast plains and snow-clad mountains between them. 
Sometimes it would dawn upon Maurice, in the midst of a 
dream of impossible bliss, that he had been seeking the good 
In a wrong channel — that perhaps it might be found when and 
where he least thought to meet it. And the idea would make 
him tremble as with a sudden inspiration his eyes would seek 
the blue vault above, so restful in its calm transcendent purity. 

And so the long summer months, laden with beauty, passed 
by him. Days he had of musing, when his soul, entering in 



312 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

upon itself, would strive painfully for the secret of Nature s 
abiding joy — days of inspiration, when after a restless night 
dreams and imaginings would shape themselves into burning 
words which he would trace with a poet's tremulous joy — days 
of moody abstraction, when even the blue heavens irritated 
him by their calm beauty, when tlie white snov.'-peaks glared 
and dazzled and robed themselves in dark pulls : da)'S too he 
had when a better spirit seemed to be taking possession of 
him, when the spirit of good brooded over his soul, when from 
the everlasting psean of hill and vale, of rustling leaves, rush- 
ing torrents and tuneful birds the shadow of a peace that 
might yet be his descended on his soul. And still Karl came 
and went, leaving the hermit in the morning, returning with 
early evening, ministering to his necessities and preventing 
him from feeling the hardships that might have been his lot 
in the strange life he had chosen. 

If the truth must be told, the imaginative German half 
expected at times, as he entered the dark gorges which led to 
his master's dwelling, to find that in his absence companion- 
ghosts had spirited him away. But such an occurrence never 
happened, and the man began to take heart and breathe more 
freely. 

Unhappily, the summer-time could not last for ever. Au- 
tumn came, and on this particular occasion an early autumn 
fell upon the valley. Bleak winds began to moan and sigh 
among the hills, the mountains robed themselves in gray, im- 
penetrable mist, the leaves shuddered and fell by myriads, 

Maurice Grey was an Englishman. He had always prided 
himself on his independence of externals, but hitherto he had 
been well occupied, mentally or physically, in such a season. 
This coming on of autumn was very differeut from any former 
experience. To be absolutely alone, or shut up with a servant 
who only at intervals shows a scared face ; a blanket, damp, 
white, clinging, about the house, and entering in by every 
nook and cranny ; nothing visible but walls of chilly vnpoi 
rising in billowy folds about dark, formless giants, that are 
known to be snow-mountains only because they have been 
visible before, — is sufficiently depressing ; but add to all this 
a mental life unhealthily alive and sensitive, an absence of 
present joys, with the memory of past happiness rbing at 



THE LIFE OF A b'OLITABY. 313 

times to mock the heart by its fairness, the sting uf a remorse- 
ful conscience, physical powers fast decaying under the un- 
speakable horrors of a lonely, unloved life, and I think it 
will be allowed that Maurice Grey would have been more 
than human if even his intellect had not begun to fail him. 

It was such a morning as that I have been describing ; he 
sat before his desk ; his pipe was on the table before him, 
books were scattered on every side, a manuscript was open, 
the pen was in the ink ; but he was doing literally nothing, 
not even attempting to beguile his dreariness with that friend 
of the forlorn — a pipe. His folded arms rested listlessly on 
the table ; he was looking out into the thick mists with a 
dreary hopelessness that in a man seemed miserable beyond 
compare. He was not even thinking. It was as though a 
gloomy abstraction had seized upon his soul. 

The door grated on its hinge — it was not particularly well 
hung — but Maurice did not hear the sound. He was like a 
man who was under the influence of some strong narcotic, 
plunged in visions that shut out the external world. Karl 
was the intruder. He peeped cautiously into the room, took 
a back-view of his master's position, then steered noiselessly 
round to the front (Maurice was painfully irritable in these 
moods) and gained a side-view of his face. It resulted in an 
ominous shake of the head and a bold move. Creeping still 
nearer, Karl touched his master on the arm, then sprang 
back, for the angry frown gathered on his brow. 

Karl had been observing him, and Maurice had a vague 
fear that in his moody fit he had been ridiculous. An Eng- 
lishman hates to be absurd, even to a valet, and Maurice 
Grey, as he glanced at the repentant German brimful of apol- 
ogies that were only waiting a suitable outlet, felt his choler 
rising. " How many times have I ordered you," he said 
mgrily, " not to come in here without knocking ?" 

" Meinherr did not hear," replied the submissive youth. 

" Then you sliould have knocked again or gone away. By 
Heaven ! do you think me incapable of taking care of my- 
self? Speak, idiot ! what is the meaning of this intrusion ?" 

The frightened German extended his arms apologetically : 
" Meinherr must condescend to hear that, as this weather ha» 
lasted some days, we are nearly out of provision." 



814 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

** Go to Grindelwald to-day." 

" Impossible. Meinherr will please to take the trouble ^f 
observing how thick are these mists." 

" Then why, in the name of all that's sensible, do you an- 
noy me ? Can I make provisions ?" 

" No, but meinherr might wish to know why his table shall 
be so poorly provided this day, and — " The man hemmed. 

"And — what? Go on, can't you ?" 

"Meinherr should also know that weather like this at 
present never lasts very long about here." 

" So much the better. Is that all you wished to tell me?" 

" Meinherr would for the few days be so much better at the 
hotel. If he should please we might go there to-morrow and 
rest till the weather shall be a little more clear. There are 
not a great many people travelling just now. Meinherr would 
have a good apartment and would be very little anuoyed." 

The poor man's voice trembled with fear and anxiety. It 
was one word for his master and several for himself. Karl 
was beginning to feel that he could scarcely bear another 
week of such horrors as those to which he had lately been ex- 
posed. His master himself, by his dark moodiness and mys- 
terious surroundings, peculiarly awe-inspiring, his only com- 
panion ; the dark gorges and mountain-caverns yawning round 
him like so many graves ; no creature to whom he could un- 
fold the tale of the fears that beset him, — nothing less than 
such a combination could have emboldened the submissive 
Karl to make the proposition which he had advanced in so 
timorous a manner. 

After the murder was out he stood silent, aghast at his own 
audacity, waiting for the torrent of angry words with which 
the Englishman would answer him. 

To his surprise no such answer came. Maurice rose from 
his seat and burst into a loud laugh. The diversion had been 
salutary: "You would make a first-rate special pleader, Karl. 
A word for me and a dozen for yourself, eh ? Well, what are 
we to do ? Some one must be left in charge here. Since you 
are so anxious about my welfare, I had better go to Grindel- 
wald and leave you behind me." 

Karl smiled pleasantly. Matters were taking a favorable 
turn. 



THE LIFE OF A SOLITARY. 315 

" Meinherr is pleased to joke. He would most certainly 
require the services of a valet in Grindelwald as well as here, 
and no one else would understand his ways so well. I spoke 
— it is perhaps a few days since — to an old woman who is well 
known in the village. She would be very glad for a small 
Bum to look after the chalet. Meinherr will excuse this lib- 
erty, I feared for him the severity of the winter season." 

" All right, Karl. Poor fellow !" he added, gently, " I fear 
you lead a hard kind of life here, and you are a faithful ser- 
vant. Well, let it be so. You shall have a little change." 

By these sudden flashes of kindliness, these glimpses of a 
better nature, Maurice had endeared himself to his servant. 
To be harshly treated was too common to the German to be 
in any way food for complaint, but for a master to consider 
him, to take a kindly interest in his feelings, was something 
quite new. His heart warmed to this proud Englishman who 
was considerate enough to give him his due meed of thanks 
and praise. 

At Maurice's last remark he pressed eagerly forward, his 
eyes glistening : " Not for worlds if at all inconvenient tc 
meinherr. What is good enough for him should, it is quite 
certain, be good enough for his servant." 

Maurice smiled : " I begin to think you are right, my good 
Karl ; a change will do me good, as well as you. I left a 
portmanteau at the hotel, so we shall not require to take any- 
thing with us. If by to-morrow the mist has at all cleared 
we shall start for Grindelwald." 

The next day rose bright and clear. Maurice and his ser- 
vant left the chalet early in the morning, locking the door 
carefully, as Maurice had a deep regard for his books and 
manuscripts, and taking with them the key, which was to be 
given to the old Swiss woman, destined heiress to the horrors 
of the lonely place. 

Happily, Marie was endowed neither with an overflow of 
imagination nor highly-strung nerves. With her small grand- 
child to wait upon her, and plenty of cofiee, sausage and 
black bread, she could be happy anywhere. 



S16 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

CHAPTER Vn, 
THE WOBK OF MARGARETS MESSENGER BEGUN. 

Sometimes we feel the wisli across the mind 
Rush like a rocket tearing up the sky, 
That we should join with God and give the world 
The slip ; but while we wish the world turns round, 
And peeps us in the face — the wanton world I 
We feel it gently pressing down our arm. 

Maurice and his servant reached the hotel in safety. Iw 
situation was fine, though not to be compared with that of the 
Englishman's chosen dwelling. It was perhaps too much shut 
in with the great giants that enclosed the valley in their ap- 
parently indissoluble embrace, too much under their shadow 
for their true grandeur to be felt. In the summer and early 
autumn it was a busy place, "or it was a favorite resting-point 
and suitable centre for many excursions. But at this time, as 
Karl had wisely predicted, it was nearly empty. The flock 
of guides who during the summer months had been accus- 
tomed to haunt its approach had gone home to their families 
and their winter-life among the herds of cattle and goats ; the 
dependances were entirely closed, and many of the windows 
of the hotel itself showed white blinds and a general appear- 
ance of being shut up for the time, 

Nevertheless, in the village of Grindelwald a slight com- 
motion seemed to be on foot, of which the hotel was appar- 
ently the centre. Curious men in white ties were discussing 
volubly with the few rough outsiders who, in the ^-aguc hope 
of further spoil, were haunting the outskirts of the hotel with 
bare-backed mules and alpen-stocks ; from the little shop 
where carvings and views were temptingly exhibited the an- 
cient proprietor was locking curiously across at the hotel ; 
and the village people were gathered together in small 
knots, evidently discussing some object of common interest 
Into the midst of this excitement Maurice Grey and his 
servant walked quietly about noon on this bright autumnal 
day. 

Karl pricked up his cars. "Somethiug has happered, 



THE WORK OF MABQ ABETS MESSENGER. 317 

/neinherr," he ventured with the familiarity of a favorite 
attendant ; then, perceiving no sign of disapproval, " Trav- 
ellers lost in yesterday's mist. Ach ! wie schrecklich !" he 
continued, lapsing into German as exciting scraps of one of 
the many conversations reached his ears. "Meinherr has 
without doubt heard. *I1 ne pent pas se consoler.' An 
Englishman, it may well be, who has lost his son, perhaps 
even two. Will meinherr permit that I make inquiry ?" 

Maurice could not help laughing at the man's overweening 
curiosity. "Ask about my room and luggage first," he said, 
*' then you may do as you like." 

But by this time the landlord had seen the Englishman, 
and had advanced, hat in hand, to ask his pleasure. The 
rarity of new arrivals in this season made an extra coating of 
politeness desirable. 

"Is anything wrong?" asked Maurice when the trivial 
matter of accommodation had been settled. 

The landlord answered in French ; he had never been abfo 
to acquire English : "Ah, monsieur, a sad event indeed ; but 
come within and you shall hear of it. We are idle now, and 
my people have nothing better to do than to talk about these 
things. Better not — better not," and he shook his head seri- 
ously. 

"But why?" asked Maurice, his curiosity aroused. "Is 
there anything particularly mysterious about this event, which 
seems to have excited you all so much ?" 

"Mysterious!" Monsieur has truly chosen a right word to 
describe this occurrence." 

And he proceeded to pour into Maurice's ear some ac- 
count of the sensational event which had that day formecf 
the one topic of conversation in the little village. 

It will be as well, perhaps, to take the story out of his 
hands and to give in a few words a resume of what, with in- 
terruptions and circumlocutions manifold, the landlord made 
C'.-raprehensible at last to his new guest. 

It seemed that a few days before the Englishman s arrival 
several travellers had put up at the hotel, apparently with the 
intention of staying there some time. 

The first party consisted of only two, an elderly gentleman 
who appeared to be in a bad state of health, and a child 



318 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Btrikingly lovely if the impassioned description of the land- 
lord was at all worthy of belief. 

They took three rooms en mite, and the little lady was 
to be constantly attended by one of the chambermaids. 

Later in the same day the second party arrived. It con- 
feisted of two gentlemen and a lady, all of whom gave Austria 
as their country. The lady, a peculiarly proud and beautifiil 
woman, seemed to be the wife of one of the gentlemen, but 
they both treated her with a tolerable amount of careless- 
ness. 

For two days these different families had remained in the 
hotel without meeting or having any intercourse one with the 
other, for the elderly gentleman had been suffering so acutely 
that he never left his room, and the child would not leave his 
side. 

On the third or fourth day he appeared at the table d'hote, 
accompanied by the little girlj and seats were placed for them 
exactly opposite to those occupied by the Austrians. The lady 
and one of the gentlemen were already seated when they en- 
tered. 

One of the waiters, it appeared, was a 'particularly ob- 
servant character, though, indeed, there are always observant 
characters at hand when such are found convenient, and a 
waiter's life at some large hotel is specially favorable to the 
cultivation of this habit of mind. Many a waiter might 
frame exciting romances, the materials drawn simply from the 
sphere of his own observations. The waiter in question was 
German, a man of an inquiring turn of mind, and specially 
given to the study of character. Some peculiarity of 
countenance, as he afterward declared, led him to look 
rather attentively at the dark, handsome face of the 
Austrian lady. Lost in his favorite study, he forgot to 
notice, by the necessary bustle, the drawing out of chairs 
and readjustment of knives and forks, the entry of the 
elderly Frenchman and his fair-haired child. He conld not, 
therefore, have been mistaken in his assertion that as the 
lady lifted her eyes from her plate and caught a glimpse of 
the new arrival, her face became suddenly convulsed. She 
started violently, first flushed crimson, then turned as pale iv 
death. 



THE WORK OF MARGARET'S MESSENGER. 319 

This circumstance made the intelligent waiter think. He 
tamed his attention instantly from the strangely-affected lady 
to the apparent cause of her agitation, but here he was 
partially baffled. There seemed to have been a kind of flash 
of recognition in the face of the gentleman with the iron-gray 
hair as he seated himself opposite to her ; even this, however, 
was so slight that possibly he might only have imagined it, 
for the Frenchman's conduct during the time allotted to dinner 
was absolutely natural. Once or twice he even looked across 
at his companions with that quiet species of scrutiny which ia 
allowable between perfect strangers meeting in this way, and 
several times he addressed himself in French to one or other 
of the gentlemen who faced him. The lady made no further 
sign, only to the far-seeing German she seemed to be making a 
violent effort to control herself. On the evening of that day 
something — he did not explain what — led this particular 
waiter to the part of the house in which the suite of rooms 
taken by the gentleman (who wiU have been recognized as 
M. L'Estrange) was situated. He stated afterward that he 
had been chained to the spot — the spot being the outside 
of the door of the Frenchman's apartment — by strange and 
unusual sounds. He heard a woman's voice, interrupted often 
with tears and sobs ; she was speaking in tones of entreaty 
or expostulation, raising her voice violently from time to time 
as her excitement grew with her theme. What that was the 
waiter could not precisely say. He was an exact man, who 
never liked to go beyond his authority. In fact, as he was 
eminently practical and had never cultivated his imaginative 
faculties, perhaps he chose the easiest course. 

Stern, low tones answered from time to time the woman's 
impassioned appeals, and at last, very suddenly as it seemed, 
the door was thrown violently open, and cloaked and hooded, 
her face covered by a thick black veil, there walked out the 
proud Austrian lady. He recognized her by her exceptional 
neight and her stately carriage. 

The door was closed softly from the inside, and the lady 
walked rapidly through the passage to her own rooms, which 
were situated in another part of the house. 

This happened two days before the arrival of Maurice. In 
the night the lady had disappeared. A French waiter went 



320 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

at the same time, whether as her attendant or not no one could 
discover. One thing alone was certain — the deed had been 
cleverly done. During the whole of those days the lady had 
been sought, but sought in vain. 

" We thought her husband careless," said the landlord in 
conclusion, "but ever since he has been like a madman. We 
dare not tell him what monsieur knows about the conversa- 
tion that has been overheard : the life of the French gentle- 
man, who seems still very ill, would scarcely be safe; and, 
after all, who can say ? He seems to have acted well. A 
woman's caprice, an old attachment. Monsieur will doubt- 
less be of my advice. It would be useless to arouse ill feeling 
without just cause." 

And so saying, the landlord shrugged his shoulders. Why 
should he affect himself at all with the miseries of forsaken 
husbands or runaway wives ? It is an ill wind that blows 
nobody good, and the landlord, to speak truly, was not dis- 
contented with the kind of notoriety which this romantic tale, 
told and retold as it might very probably be — especially if 
the denoument should turn out to be tragic — would bring 
upon his house. 

jNIaurice Grey read something of this in the man's eyes, 
and in his turn he shrugged his shoulders, a sign with him of 
bitter contempt. 

Not "What fools," but "What knaves these mortals be!" 
was the constant cry of his sick soul. It was meeting bim 
again as he emerged from his solitude. 

When the landlord left him to answer some summons, 
Maurice Grey looked out upon the mountains, and laughed a 
laugh that was sad to hear, for under the mirth lay a weary 
weight of misery and bitterness. Women inconstant, man 
faithless — everywhere self-interest the great ruling motive of 
life, and in all the green earth no spot where he conld lay his 
head, feeling " Here I may rest with a perfect confidence." 
The man's heart contracted painfully; from such a stand- 
point as his the outlook on humanity is gloomy indeed. He 
felt for a moment that he would fain be out of it all. The 
frank, round face of Karl aroused him to a sense of his posi- 
tion, and to the recollection that while such simple souls as 



THE WORK OF MARGARET'S MESSENGER. 321 

his were left all honesty had not passed away from the earth. 
It was certainly a relief. 

" Meinherr's rooms are ready, his fire lit and his clothes 
airing. Will he please to see if everything is to his liking ?" 
paid the German. 

" Where is my room ?" 

" In the best p»rt of the house, eccelleuz, close to the 
apartments occupied by the gentleman of whom he has doubt- 
less heard." 

" The inconsolable husband ?" Maurice's lips were curled 
intv> a kind of sneer as he asked the question. 

"No, meinherr; the other person concerned, as they say, in 
this sad business — a Frenchman, I believe." 

" So all these details are the common talk of the place," said 
Maurice to himself " Unfortunate man !" And then he set 
his teeth together. "I acted wisely," he muttered; "such a 
scandal as this would have killed me." 

He said nothing more to Karl, and the honest soul, who 
had rejoiced in the interest his master was taking in sublunary 
affairs, who had been congratulating himself, in fact, on the 
very rapid success of his plan for drawing his master out of 
his dark moods, was distressed and perplexed to see the old 
frown gather on his brow, to hear his fierce, impatient sigh, 
and to find himself banished summarily from his room with 
the curt abruptness to which Karl had become accustomed. 

Left alone, Maurice sat down by the little wood-fire, which 
had been kindled solely in consideration for his feelings as an 
Englishman, and returned to his sad pondering. He was 
playing a dangerous game with himself, for he was in that 
mood which has often tempted a man to tamper with his 
humanity — to put out his rash hand and experimentalize ob. 
the nature whose fearful beauty and hidden mystery it is 
impossible for him to understand. It would have been better, 
a thousand times better, for the Englishman at such a moment 
as thJ! to have thrown himself into any kind of work, to have 
sought society, however humble, to have looked for some in- 
terest in the outer world ; anything would have been better, 
indeed, than this giving way to the spirit that possessed him — 
this looking for and searching into what no son or daughter 
of humanity may fathom. Like a fiend's temptatidi lan 
21 



322 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

backward and forward through his mind, haunting him with 
its dull rhythm, the burden of a song that he remembered to 
have heard in some bygone time : 

" A still small voice, it spake to me — 
Thou art so full of misery, 
Were it not betternot to be?" 

And again, with an added force — 

" Thou art so steeped in misery. 
Surely 'twere better not to be — better not to be." 

As he repeated these words half aloud, Maurice rose and 
paced the room excitedly. 

" Yes," he said to himself, " a wise counsel. Men, women, 
what are they?" He knit his brows and his eyes looked fierce. 
"What are we? — miserable, and our misery makes us bad. 
God ! — if there be a God !" — he lifted his pale, agitated face, 
but underlying his wretched, wild doubts might have been 
read there the reverence of a fine soul — " why are we misera- 
ble, seeking good for evermore, and finding evil, inconstancy, 
falsehood ? Why is our fair world the abode of fiends incar- 
nate, who burden the ages with their folly? And if we were 
happy" — again he lifted his pale face, and the dazzling snow- 
peaks against their azure background met his gaze — " if we 
were happy," he repeated slowly — " if she bad been happy — 
O God ! she would have been good, for the soul of purity was 
in her ; but misery brings madness to the blood and thoughts 
of evil to the heart; and for misery there is no cure under 
the sun." 

For a few moments he remained perfectly still and silent, 
his arms folded, his brow contracted, looking out upon the 
enow-fields; then added, this time half aloud, "But one!" 

He turned from the window and cast a rapid, hungry glance 
round the room. It was comfortably arranged, the small 
wood-fire crackling merrily, the clothes he was about to wear 
hanging on a chair beside it carefully brushed, his bed turned 
down, exhibiting the whitest of white linen ; but what specially 
drew Maurice's attention was his portmanteau, which, after 



THE WORK OF MARGARET'S MESSENGER. 323 

the necessary articles had been taken from it, Karl had left 
open, that the expediency of further unpacking might be de- 
cided by his master. It was a large travelling portmanteau, 
evidently full of a miscellaneous collection of articles — books, 
dressing-apparatus, clothes, curiosities picked up in wandering 
from place to place. On one of these curiosities, which waa 
lying near the top of the open side, Maurice's eyes finally 
rested. 

F >r a moment he gazed silently, then crossing the room 
took it up in his hand to examine it more closely. A case 
containing a pair of small pocket-pistols, the barrels of sil- 
vered metal richly chased with gold. One of these Maurice 
removed from its covering. He handled it with a certain 
curiosity, took it to pieces to examine its condition, cleaned it 
with the most delicate care, then, after putting it together 
again, spent a few moments in listening to its click. It looked 
more like an elegant toy than a dangerous weapon. Maurice 
put it down and returned it to the case, which contained, be- 
sides the companion pistol, a small flask of gunpowder and 
some bullets. These he took out, then in a quiet, leisurely 
manner proceeded to load the pistol. His attitude was rather 
that of a man who is amusing himself, trying to kill time, 
than of one who has any serious purpose in view. And per- 
haps at this moment Maurice was scarcely serious. In any 
case, when his work was done he did not proceed farther ; he 
put the pistol down again. It almost seemed as if this quiet, 
ordinary occupation (for Maurice's firearms had always been 
treated by him with minute personal care — he did not allow 
a servant to touch them) had quieted the tone of his mind and 
banished some of his dark thoughts. He put down the pistol 
then, and turned back to the fireside to resume his unhealthy 
musing. 

For here lay Maurice Grey's error. Instead of mastering 
his morbid feelings, driving them away by stress of hard 
work and diversity of thought, he, like many a strong man 
before and since, suffered them to master him. 

Again and again he would return to the old mystery, bring- 
ing the energy of his soul to bear upon it. Again and again 
it would elude him, till, mortified and baffled, tied down to 
the narrow circle of self-knowledge, a broad outlook on 



324 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

humanity impossible by reason of his self-chosen fate, he had 
come to loathe his very life as an evil thing. 

It is easier to meet a foe in fair fight than a gia nt formed 
by a diseased imagination — blurred, indistinct, but awful 
with the terrors of the unknown. 

With his small pistol within reach, Maurice set to work 
01 .ce more thinking over humanity's woes and wrongs, 
gloomily seeking for the shadow of a reason why life should 
be thought worth having — why it would not be well to pass 
out from it once and for ever through the lurid portals of 
self-destruction. What wonder that his unhealthy pondering 
should poiut out to him no ray of light, no gleam of hope ? 

But happily for Maurice, and for the many who were in- 
teresting themselves in his welfare, his mind at the time could 
bear no further tension. Rather to his own surprise, he found 
it wandering from the solemn question of life versus death to 
the common things that surrounded him. How strange it is 
that at the solemnest moments the trivial and commonplace 
intrude the most perseveringly ! And yet it is a fact that 
might be proved by numberless instances. 

Maurice's window looked out upon the hotel garden ; grad- 
ually, as the tension on his nerves grew less, he caught him- 
self countiug and remarking curiously the very few who from 
time to time passed up and down the snow-shrouded paths 
and alleys. A woman-servant, apparently looking for some 
kind of herb ; two waiters, who walked rapidly up and down 
as if enjoying the keen air and glittering sunshine ; the land- 
lady, in morning undress, crossing to the dependance in the 
grounds, and returning with some utensil which had been left 
there accidentally; finally — and this it was that riveted 
Maurice's attention — a traveller, probably a new arrival, for 
the landlord had given Maurice a detailed account of all 
those who were in his house at the time, especially giving him 
to understand that no English visitors remained. And this 
young man was certainly from England. What other country 
oould have produced the faultless exterior with regard to form, 
the fair freshness of face, the well-bred nonchalance of 
manner ? 

The ycung man held a cigar lightly in the tips of his fin- 
gers, his lively whistle penetrated to Maurice's retreat, he 



A Ti!TE-l-T&TE DINNER AT THE HOTEL. 325 

walked up and down on tlie crystallized snow with a resolute, 
energetic step ; there was, to the eyes of the jaded man of the 
world, sometLing peculiarly pleasant and attractive about his 
general appearance. 

" I wonder who he is ?" said Maurice to himself. " It woul 1 
be rather pleasant to meet anything so fresh ; he has a good 
face, too. That young fellow is no scamp." 

Inconsistency of human nature, or rather, perhaps, adapt' 
ability to circumstances. Maurice a few moments before had 
been condemning his generation indiscriminately, calling men 
and women by the harshest names in the vocabulary, longing 
passionately to escape from them for ever. Appears upon 
the scene a young man with a fair, fresh face, and he endows 
him immediately with the qualities in which all his kind had 
been pronounced deficient ! Strange, but true, for such is life, 
so complex a thing, driven hither and thither by trifles light 
as air. 

Maurice Grey turned away from the window, looked with 
a half smile, half tremor at the loaded pistol, put it in a safe 
place lest Karl should see fit to meddle with it, and proceeded 
to dress himself carefully for the early table-d'hote dinner. 

And thus, though he himself was all unconscious of the 
fact, the work of Margaret's messenger was begun. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

A Tt^TE-l-Ti^TE DINNER AT THE HOTEL. 

For how false is the fairest breast ! 

How little worth, if true ! 
And who would wish possessed 
What all must scorn or rue ? 
Then pass by beauty with looks above : 
Oh seek never — share never — woman's love. 

Maurice Grey's costume was as faultless as that of the 
young man whom he had admired in the hotel-garden when at 
the strange hour of two o'clock p. m. he, in obedience to the sum- 
moning bell, peered into the long dining-room, at the extrem- 



326 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

ity of which was a small table spread with two or three covers. 
Karl, his face beaming all over as he recognized his master, 
was standing behind the chair destined for him, the young 
Englishman was brushing his feet vigorously on the mat be- 
fore the door that stood midway in the room, two waiter? 
were hovering about helplessly. 

Maurice took his place at one side, Arthur Forrest seated 
himself at the other side of the table. They were English- 
men and total strangers one to the other, therefore it is 
scarcely necessary to say that the places they chose were as 
far apart as the small size of the table would permit. And 
yet the two men were anxious to know one another — Maurice, 
because he felt that his companion's freshness would be a re- 
lief to his jaded soul ; Arthur, because he had recognized in 
Maurice Grey the husband of Margaret, the man for whom 
he had been searching through the length and breadth of 
Europe. 

Burning with anxiety to unfold his mission, he could 
scarcely preserve his composure now the fatal moment had 
arrived, now he and the man he had been seeking were at 
last face to face. For he could not be mistaken; he had 
ascertained from the landlord the name of this only other 
Englishman besides himself who had not fled from the valleys 
at the first breath of winter, and Maurice's likeness, confided 
to him by Margaret, had been too often studied in its every 
lineament for him not to be able at once to know its original. 
With the knowledge came an excitement that threatened to 
overpower him utterly; but he controlled himself. That 
calm self-possession and a certain amount of diplomacy were 
absolutely necessary if he would bring his mission to a sue 
cessful issue, he felt most keenly. 

Once Maurice caught the young men's eye scanning his 
face, and as the eyes met Arthur blushed ; he felt, too much 
for his comfort and composure, that the slightest false move 
might be fatal. Maurice was utterly unsuspicious ; he attrib- 
uted his young companion's confusion to embarrassment at 
being caught exhibiting a little too much curiosity, and ne 
was simply amused, determining in his own mind to find out 
more about the young fellow, so evidently a gentleman, yet so 
frank and transparent in his ways. 



A TilTE-l-TilTE DINNER AT THE HOTEL. 327 

A fe^v moments of delay passed by ; then, as there was no 
further accession to the company, soup was served. Arthur, 
too full of tremulous excitement to be able to find a single 
commonplace, began to eat in total silence ; Maurice looked 
across at him between the spoonfuls. 

" Apparently we are to dine alone together," he said at 
last with a pleasant smile ; " rather a different scene from the 
one I looked in upon a few weeks ago." 

" I suppose this place is very full in the season," was Ax-^ 
thur's not very brilliant reply. 

" Especially so this year ; it is gaining in renown, and cer- 
tainly the situation is good. But to me hotel-life is so dis- 
tasteful." 

Arthur was beginning to gain confidence. " Do you think 
80 ?" he said. " Now, I like it — abroad, that is to say ; the 
people one meets are off their stilts, and generally inclined to 
be friendly ; there is no bother, something approaching to 
comfort, and plenty of life and gayety." 

" I'm afraid present circumstances will scarcely answer to 
your description," said Maurice. 

Arthur laughed : " No, indeed, you and I seem to be the 
only sane people in the establishment. I gather from the 
waiters — one of whom, happily for me, speaks English — that 
the present company consists of an elderly gentleman, ill or 
out of his mind, certainly peculiar ; his daughter, an angel 
of beauty and goodness ; a fuming Austrian, scouring the 
mountains for his lost wife ; attendant brother, similarly occu- 
pied ; landlord, landlady, staff of servants." 

Maurice smiled : " I think you have omitted nobody, only, 
for fear your expectations should have risen too high, even 
under circumstances so meagre, I should inform you that the 
angel of beauty is a child, a mere baby ; but ray arrival only 
preceded yours by a few hours, so, like you, I speak from 
rumor. Now, may I venture to ask how long you will be 
likely to stand out against such an atrocious state of things ? 
I have an interest in the question, as I believe I am a fixture 
for some time." 

It was by no means an easy question for Arthur to answer. 
He might have said that the time of his stay depended en- 
tirely upon Maurice himself Not being able to give the true 



328 CUASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

answer, lie treated the question as lightly as possible : " Oh ! 
I can scarcely say, exactly. I was recommended to come — 
mountains in winter, snow, and that kind of thing ; they cer- 
tainly look very well, but, you see, I am not precisely an 
enthusiast in that line." 

" Was it for your health ?" asked Maurice with grave in- 
terest, looking compassionately at the fresh young face, whose 
brilliant coloring might possibly hide disease. 

This question made Arthur turn as red as fire. The know- 
ledge of what his errand really was rendered him painfully 
self-conscious. " Why, no — yes — no, I mean," he answered, 
his confusion growing as he advanced. — " What a fool I must 
be !" he muttered to himself angrily ; then, as he caught a 
faint smile, polite but perplexed, on the lips of his questioner, 
he controlled himself suddenly. " The fact is," he said 
rapidly, " I've been so desperately chaffed about this mid- 
winter journey — But, you see, I rather like cold weather, 
and the air here is bracing." 

Maurice saw his questions had been ill-timed, and with true 
courtesy proceeded to change the subject : " You would not 
have said so yesterday. Then, and for some days previously, 
it was anything but bracing up here. We had a fine blanket 
of cold mist about us — not a tree to be seen beyond the dis- 
tance of a handsbreadth." 

" I thought you had only arrived yesterday," said Arthur, 
a tremor in his voice. He knew perfectly well whence 
Maurice had come, but it was his plan to feign ignorance ; he 
wished to draw him on to speak about himself. 

Maurice smiled : " I don't come from very far. You must 
have heard from the people about here of the peculiar Eng- 
lishman who shuns civilized places — I believe this is the form 
the rumors take — and lives by himself in a chalet among the 
mountains. That strange individual is before you now." 

Arthur bowed, as in acknowledgment of this peculiar kind 
of introduction. "I must confess," he replied, "that Mr. 
Grey is known to me by fame, and being so far in advance 
of you I must ask you to be obliging enough to accept my 
card. If, as I suppose, we are to dine in this way tete-^-tete 
for some few days to come, it is as well that we should at least 
know each (^ther by name." 



A T&TE-A-T&TE DINNER AT THE HOTEL. 329 

"Thank you," replied Maurice cordially. He was at a 
loss to account for the timidity, the hesitation, the evi(^eut 
constraint of this young man, who was yet, to all appearance, 
no novice in the ways of the 'world; but he liked him and 
wished to set him at his ease. 

"You have just come from England, I presume?" he said 
after a short pause, looking kindly into Arthur's flushed face. 
" I have been a wanderer for many years. How do you like 
this kind of life?" 

"it has been pleasant enough," replied the younger man, 
reassured once more by his companion's friendliness ; " but, 
do you know, I find nothing to compare with the comfort, the 
convenience — in fact, you know the kind of thing that one 
finds at home. Here one can't get even decent tobacco; 
there is nothing to be had in the way of drink but sour wine. 
As for the cooking, some people praise it very highly ; but — " 
As he spoke there came up a little dish of vegetables swim- 
ming in butter. " Bah ! they call that an entree, I suppose." 

Maurice laughed, and helped himself to the obnoxious 
dish : " You see what wandering does. I have become cos- 
mopolitan in my tastes. From the sauerkraut of Germany 
to the caviare of Russia I am tolerably at home, able at least 
to pick up a living ; but come, you are right about the wine, 
which I really think grows in sourness with the added degrees 
of frost ; we might have better tipple than this, and it is an 
occasion. I have not done the social for many a long day. 
The * Wein kart,' Karl. Let us order up the best bottle of 
champagne the landlord has in his cellar, though I greatly 
fear his stock is low. Karl, inquire for me — any first quality 
champagne left ?" 

The landlord's cellar was not absolutely empty. In a few 
moments a bottle of very excellent champagne stood on the 
table between the two young men. Maurice drained a 
brimming glass ; Arthur would scarcely do more than wet his 
lips. He had not forgotten his purpose, and to bring it to a 
successful issue he knew it would be necessary to have all his 
wits about him. Laughingly, Maurice reproached his young 
companion for his abstemiousness, and filled and refilled hia 
own glass with the glittering draught. For after the dull 
weight of loneliness, after the terrible experiences of the 



330 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

morning, after the gloomy musing that had oppressed him 
with its horror, this return, even transitory as he felt it to be, 
to some of life's amenities was a boundless relief to the man's 
Boul. In the old happy days society had been Maurice Grey's 
life; it had intoxicated him like wine. Among his peers, 
when, soul meeting soul, the sparkles of wit, the flashes of 
gay humor had been struck out in the heat of social inter- 
course, he had reigned as a king : brilliant, vivacious, bound- 
lessly hospitable, his society had been courted by the world, 
and he had met the world courteously, drawing out from its 
pleasures the extreme of good that was in them. 

But misery had changed Maurice woefully, and it was only 
when the wine was in his blood, when its liquid fire was 
coursing through his veins, that he could return in any degree 
to his former self — that he could become once more the fas- 
cinating, brilliant, cordial man of society. On this particular 
occasion he had determined to forget himself. It was the 
flying back of the bow that had been bent nigh to breaking. 
Wine could make him forget, and he poured out glass after 
glass, draining them rapidly, as a man might do who was 
consumed with burning thirst. Gradually his eyes began to 
shine and his words to flow more readily. The haughty, self- 
contained man spoke freely of himself, and made a friend and 
companion of the youth whom hazard had thrown into his 
way. 

Arthur listened silently, with a tremulous joy. If Maurice 
would confide in him his task was half done already. But 
love had taught the young man prudence. He would hear 
before he would speak ; he would earnestly study the character 
of him he had come so far to seek before he would determine 
how and when his object should be revealed. Maurice, in this 
mood, was a marvellously agreeable companion. The younger 
man, standing, as it were, on the threshold of life, listened, 
entranced, to his descriptions of the great world, and Mr. Grey 
knew the world better than most men. He had plunged into 
every kind of society ; he had feigned to be what he was not, 
that he might gain access to that which would otherwise have 
been denied to him ; he had played upon the weaknesses of 
men and women, only to scathe them with his biting ridicule, 
^hen too, he had seen the world from a variety of stand- 



A T^TE-A-TETE DINNER AT THE HOTEL. 331 

jioints. During the first part of his life as a man he had 
taken a part in the careers which the great world offers to its 
votaries ; afterward he had lived as a spectator : holding him- 
self aloof from the heartburnings, the jealousies, the ambitions, 
the intrigues, he had been able more calmly to note and criti- 
cise. He had made undying enemies, he had knit to himself 
faithful friends, he had been concerned in strange histories ; 
but all these things had been apart from himself. As far as 
his own feelings were concerned, they were nothing, feathers 
light as air, incidents pour passer le temps — nothing more. He 
was in the midst of a brilliant series of anecdotes drawn from 
his life in St. Petersburg, which had been fruitful in events, 
commenting lightly, even with a kind of sarcasm — for these 
things could not move Maurice Grey — on the enthusiasm he 
had excited in female breasts, and on the confusion and dis- 
may which his mysterious absence would create, when the 
light began to wane, and the waiter came in to set a match to 
the solitary oil-lamp which was the hotel dining-room's winter 
allowance of light. 

Maurice stopped and drew out his watch : " By Jove ! young 
gentleman, your society is so fascinating that I had altogether 
forgotten the time. Do you know we have been nearly three 
hours at table ? Now tell me candidly, have you any plan 
for this evening ? I need scarcely ask," he continued laugh- 
ing; "amusements are not in this primitive corner; if you 
went out to walk you would infallibly lose yourself, and as 
far as I can make out there are in the hotel at present no fair 
ladies to conquer ; but so much the better for you. If I had 
my life to live over again, I would flee woman as I would the 
plague." His brow contracted. "I wonder why I talk 
about women at all. They are all alike false and fickle." 

Arthur looked up. He was but a boy, and in presence of 
this man of the world, steeped to the lips in cynicism, it was 
difficult to express the strong faith of his young soul. But 
Margaret's face in its calm beauty came suddenly like a sweet 
rision before his eyes, and he answered, trembling slightly, 
" I am younger than you, Mr. Grey, and have had much less 
experience of the world ; but I know that in this thing you 
are wrong. There may be some women who are bad and 
faithless, and all that kind of thing — there are ever so many 



332 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNO W. 

more who are good and pure. Perhaps you have been un 
fortunate in your intercourse with women — perhaps — " his 
voice shook, and there was a sudden light in his blue eyes — 
" perhaps you have made some terrible mistake." 

Maurice was earnestly intent on the business of lighting his 
cigar from the solitary oil-lamp, so that the look on Arthur's 
face escaped him, but the earnestness, the apparent meaning 
in the boy's voice, impressed him strangely. He turned 
round instantly, a slight appearance of surprise in his man- 
ner ; then as he caught sight of the flushed face and gleam- 
ing eyes of his companion, he shook his head and his lips 
curled into something like a sneer : " My dear fellow, you are 
young. Wait a few years, and your vigorous championship 
will die down, withered by circumstances." 

He laughed bitterly, and Arthur turned away, a cold feel- 
ing at his heart. He could not understand this cynicism. 
To him who knew this man's history it seemed cruel and 
wanton beyond compare. 

But Maurice was good-natured, and he liked the boy ; his 
very freshne|s, whose springs he had been trying to poison, 
pleased him. He took him by the arm and looked into his 
averted face. " Have I frightened you altogether ?" he said 
kindly, " or will you listen to what I was about to propose ?" 

Arthur smiled his acquiescence, but it was with an effort ; 
he felt in no smiling mood. ^ 

" If you like, then, let us adjourn to my quarters. This 
great place looks desolate with the one oil-lamp they gener- 
ously allow us. There I have a jar of excellent whisky, and 
Karl will soon find us all appliances and means to boot for 
the concoction of whisky-punch, which, if you had lived so 
long in these inhospitable regions as I have, you would know 
tc. be a real luxury." 

Arthur smiled : " I have not tasted a drop since I left, 
England. ' 

" Then you agree to my proposal ? Come !" 

The two men rose, Maurice linking his arm into that of 
his companion, and leaving the long dining-room, threaded 
the ill-lit passages which led to Maurice's apartment. The 
doer of the room adjoining his was ajar, and close to its 
thr»hold they paused involuntarily for a second or two. 



A T&TE-l-T&TE DINNER AT THE HOTEL. Soo 

What made them stop was nothing more than a child's voice 
singing a child's hymn : an untaught, feeble voice, thrilling with 
melody that made it tremble, there was yet in it that which 
irresi;stibly drew and fascinated. Even in its weakness there 
^as something strange. To the imaginative it would have 
seemed like a woman's heart trying to express itself through 
the feeble medium of a child's voice. For there was soul and 
purpose in the quavering treble that trilled against the air. 
With one accord the men stopped to listen, holding their 
breath lest any of the sounds should escape them. The voice 
paused a moment and they passed on, but before they had 
reached their destination, Maurice, who had been looking 
back toward the door whence the sound had proceeded, 
caught an instantaneous glimpse of the owner of the childish 
voice. A little golden head and fair face, on which light 
from within the room was shining, peered out and looked up 
and down the passage. Only for a moment, but in that mo- 
ment the dark eyes of the golden-haired child and the dark 
eyes of the world-weary man met. The child, frightened 
vagut-ij, retreated to the inside of the room ; the man stag- 
gered as if he had received a blow, and sank down, to his 
compjinion's dismay, pale and speechless on the nearest chair. 

Mhdrice, it must be remembered, had been drinking pretty 
freely and in such a condition as his men are scarcely so well 
able >.o master their sudden emotions as they may be at another 
time. 

Tl,e face of his child, the sound of the hymns her mother 
had ^ung at her cradle, was to Maurice like the dim memory 
of a fair dream. He did not for a moment recognize the child 
as his own ; he was far from imagining that the little Laura 
•was near him, and the look in her eyes, the expression of her 
features, the music of her voice, constituted a haunting mys- 
tery that absolutely staggered him. 

He met her eyes, and suddenly, as in a vision, his wife's 
pure face, his child's cradle, all the details in their utmost 
minuteness of a home that had once been happy, flashed ovei 
his mind. He did not know how it had come. He scarcely 
even connected this sudden revulsion of feeling with the sight 
of the child's face; he only knew that it was there, a haunting 
memory of past happiness, and that his present pain was til- 



334 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

most too great to be borne. Covering bis face witb bis bands, 
tbe strong, cynical man sat for some minutes — minutes tbat 
seemed ages to Artbur — plunged in bitter tbougbt. 

Wben be looked up, Artbur tbougbt bis face was more 
baggard tban it bad been, and tbere was a certain excitement 
in bis manner. He rang tbe bell vigorously. "You will say 
I am a pretty bost, Mr. Forrest," be said ligbtly ; " tbis Ifi 
scarcely tbe entertainment I promised you." 

Tben, as Karl, wbo bad been in tbe close neigbborbood of 
tbe room expecting some sucb summons, appeared in tbe door- 
way, " Try and get a small kettle, two tumblers and a lemon." 

In a very short time tbe required articles were in the room, 
and with bis favorite beverage before him the frown passed 
from Maurice's brow and tbe gloomy abstraction from his 
manner. 

He returned to tbe descriptions which bis adjournment to 
bis own room bad interrupted, and Arthur was by turns con- 
vulsed with merriment, thrilling with sympathy, absorbed in 
interest; but Maurice's tales left a sad impression. Tbere 
ran through them all the spirit of the preacher's bitter cry, 
"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity." 

"Yes, Solomon was a wise man," cried Maurice at tbe end 
of one of bis vivid bits of description. " ' One man in a 
thousand have I found, but a woman have I not found.' " 

He flung down bis glass with a laugh so bitter that it made 
bis young companion shudder. 

" You look incredulous," continued Maurice ; " when tbe 
gray begins to sprinkle your hair you will come to the same 
conclusion. Look !" be bowed his bead and showed the deep 
furrows tbat lined his brow, tbe white that shone out here 
and tbere from bis dark hair. "I could have done great 
things in tbe world : a woman made me what I am — a wreck 
in every sense of tbe word." 

Tbe whisky was rapidly mounting to tbe man's brain. Mau- 
rice's cheek was flushed, his eyes glistened, but he recollected 
himself suddenly : " I am a fool to prate about my own affairs, 
God knows it were best to bide them ; but, young man, you 
will understand it all some day." He laughed harshly. " Lives 
tbere a man wbo has not suffered?" 

Artbur listened to bis ravings, and as be did so tbe memory 



A TJETE-A-TETE dinner at IHE HOTEL. 335 

of Margaret's pure life, the echo of her noble words, shone out 
to him likfc light through the darkness of her husband's des- 
perate wordii. 

At first he felt his heart swell with indignation, but he looked 
at Maurice and tte indignation changed to pity. "Yes," said 
the young man to himself, " to believe such a woman false 
must be enough to kill a man's faith in humanity." 

He rose from his seat, and stood up before the world-sated 
man strong in the pure faith of his young soul. His com- 
panion had said he would understand this some day. 

"Never!" said Arthur earnestly; "God grant that day 
may never come ! I know women on whose constancy and 
purity I would stake my life." He was thinking of Margaret 
and Adele. 

Maurice looked at him curiously. For the second time he 
saw that in Arthur's face which made him think there might 
possibly be a meaning under his vigorous assertions. 

" Life is not very much to stake," he said lightly — " more, 
no doubt, to you than to me — but I confess I am curious." 
The cynical smile which Arthur disliked was playing round 
his lips. " I have given you a chapter out of my experience ; 
return it by giving me one out of yours. I should like to 
know more about those fair ladies — but perhaps they are not 
fair ; that would make all the difference — upon whose integ- 
rity you would be ready to stake your life." Then his voice 
deepened and his brow contracted : " God knows I would have 
done the same once upon a time, but that is past, with other 
things." 

There was silence between the two men for a few moments ; 
then Maurice looked across at the young face, on which a 
shade of weariness was resting, with some compunction. 

" Poor fellow !" he said gently, " I have done wrong. Faith 
is such a beautiful thing, and it lasts so short a time, I should 
have left you yours." 

But Arthur looked up almost angrily : " You cannot surely 
think that my faith is weakened by anything you have said." 

Maurice smiled. "Youthful infatuation!" he muttered. 
" But let me hear your story," he added aloud, " then perhaps 
I shall discover that unlike mine your faith '3 founded on a 
rock." 



336 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Arthur looked at his companion searchingly. The last 
■words had been carelessly spoken, for the excitement brought 
on by wine and whisky was wearing Maurice out ; fatigue and 
exhaustion were fast taking possession of him. 

The young man read this, and he rose to his feet. 

"I cannot tell you my story to-night/' he said; "it is 
rather long, considering the lateness of the hour." 

" As you will, my dear fellow." Maurice's eyes were nearly 
closed. 

Arthur went to his own room, and when Karl appeared a 
few minutes later to take his master's last commands, he had 
great difficulty in persuading him of the desirability of un- 
dressing and lying down between the sheets like a Christian. 
He succeeded at last, and Maurice slept such a deep unbroken 
sleep as he had not known for days ; but he woke with a 
racking headache and a general sense of dissatisfaction. 



CHAPTER IX. 

A TORMENTED SPIRIT. 

Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled 
Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted ; 

The glory of the moon is dead, 

Night's ghosts and dreams have now departed : 

Thine own soul still is true to thee, 

But changed to a foul fiend through misery. 

In the mean time, L'Estrange, in his enforced retirement, 
had not forgotten to supply himself with a means of knowing 
everything that went on in the house. In most places he had 
an agent of some kind ; where he had not his intimate know- 
ledge of human nature made it not difficult for him to find 
out the creature he needed. 

He had heard of the Austrian lady's flight. This small 
episode, which in days gone by would scarcely have caused' 
him a moment's thought, had wrought upon his mind to such 
an extent that a serious relapse had been the consequence. 

It was pretty much as the landlord had conjectured. Tha 



A TORMENTED SPIRIT. 337 

{i(;ud lady who had put down her pride so woefully, tramp- 
liug her own and her husband's honor in the dust, was one 
of the many to whom this man had vowed undying attach- 
ment. She had tired him, and he had abandoned her ; and 
Jrom the day of their parting years before in sunny Italy to 
ihis time, when L'Estrange and she found themselves strangely 
under the same roof, they had never met. The fair Austi ian 
tiad been forgotten, relegated in his mind to the record of 
past absurdities, but she had never forgotten him. 

Her life had been uneventful, lived out in a small German 
town, where petty gossip is the sole excitement. She had 
married a man for whom she cared little, simply because to 
marry had been rendered almost necessary by the exigencies 
of her position. She had had no children. What wonder, 
ihen, that her mind dwelt, ever more morbidly as the slow 
years passed by, on this one warm, passionate episode in her 
otherwise cold career? 

In any case, so it was. She believed that the man who 
had loved her then — the man whose tender speeches rung 
ever in her ears — loved her still with the same passion, and 
that only necessity, biting poverty or unacknowledged ties, had 
forced him to leave her so cruelly. After all, it was only a 
very commonplace and every-day matter. To the woman 
this summer-day's love-making had been that one great epoch 
from which everything past and future should thenceforward 
be dated — the era of an awakening into life of feelings that 
had before lain dormant and unsuspected in her being. To 
the man it was nothing more than one sweet out of many — a 
sweet which, when it should cloy upon his fastidious taste, 
could be put away without a sigh to the memory of its 
sweetness. 

With the idea in her mind of his continued faithfulness, 
the Austrian lady had persuaded her husband to travel, only 
that she might search for her lost lover through the length 
and breadth of Europe. But for the greater part of two 
years they had been wanderers, and still they had come ipon 
no' traces of him who had formerly seemed to be ubiquitous. 
She had begun to mourn for him as the dead, when suddenly, 
in this out-of-the-way corner, at this strange season, she saw 
his face once more. 

22 



338 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

It was seldom that this proud lady betrayed the emotions 
of her soul. It may be that her inner consciousness of want 
of rectitude of purpose had been one great agent in the forma- 
tion of those barriers of steel with which she sought to surround 
herself. But this time there was no help for her. The pent- 
up torrent had grown in force and intensity, until no bounds 
could restrain its impetuous overflow. She was a Avoman, and 
the haggardness of the face of the man she loved, the stoop- 
ing walk, the whitened hair, spoke so powerfully to her im- 
agination that she could scarcely be calm. Was it for her he 
had been sorrowing ? And yet in that flash of recognition at 
the dinner-table she had read nothing but cold indifierence. 
She knew him to be a consummate actor : was this, then, put 
on ? In her hungry desire to know the whole truth she pre- 
pared an interview for that evening ; but before it her measures 
had been taken. There was a person in the house — one she 
had met before — who, her woman's instinct told her, would 
willingly lay down his life in her service. She would take 
him into her counsels ; and if the presentiment which lay cold 
at her heart as she looked upon the well-known face that 
evening should turn out to be true — if she could never be 
consoled with this man's love — she would flee from the place, 
leave her husband, give up her position in society and hide 
her humiliation in a convent. 

And so it had all happened. What could L'Estrange say 
when she spoke to him passionately of their former love, when 
she asked him plainly if there remained any vestige of it in his 
heart? 

He thought to do what was best and wisest ; he thought to 
kill the madness in her soul by letting her see at once that all 
which had passed between them was as though it had never 
been. For Laura's unconscious influence and those struggles 
through which he had passed had not been altogether in vain ; 
L'Estrange was a better man than he had been in almost any 
period of his strange, wild career. 

Deeply as he pitied the erring lady, he told her the truth — 
told her that in his heart all such feelings as she would have 
striven to awaken were for ever dead. It was painful to lis- 
ten to her wild reproaches, to hear that it was he who had 



. A TORMENTED SPIRIT. 339 

made her life a desolation — painful, with only the frail panels 
of a dividing door between them and the pure child, to bow 
his head beneath the torrent of her well-deserved anger. But 
it did not last long. In his dark eyes, made brilliant by fever, 
in the stern lines written by trouble on his strong face, in the 
determined tones of his voice, she read his resolve, and with 
the coming on of darkness she fled over the snows to a hamlet 
in the mountains, there to stay, under the roof of a poor 
herdsman, until the first hue-and-cry should be over. Those 
who helped her flight were faithful to her cause ; their mea- 
ures were well taken, and the drifting of the snow obliterated 
all marks of footsteps. In time she reached the distant 
convent, and the mystery of her disappearance was never 
solved. 

But into L'Estrange's soul the iron entered. At the 
threshold of a new life past evil — evil irrevocable — was 
meeting him, and before the irrevocable the spirit of the 
strong man sank. That night he would not touch the be- 
guiling potion. He almost hailed the bitter physical and 
mental pain which this abstaining entailed. It seemed like 
a kind of expiation for the follies of his life. He could not 
close his eyes. Throughout the long watches of the night he 
paced his room, body and soul racked with inconceivable 
anguish. The pain was beginning to tell on his strong 
frame. 

When, early on the following morning, the little Laura 
went into her friend's room, she found him stretched on the 
sofa pale and gaunt, like one who has passed through a death- 
agony. She noticed the change at once, and ran to his side : 
" Mon pfere is worse ?" 

" Yes, Laura," he replied ; then he took her small face in 
his hands, and holding it there for a few moments gazed on it 
earnestly : " Petite cherie, we must lose no time." 

" In finding papa ?" replied the little one seriously. " Mon 
p^re, I think it will be soon. Last night I dreamt I saw him. 
Is he here, in this house, I wonder ?" 

But her friend turned away: "Little one, you are too 
much shut up here, and this makes you imaginative. It is a 
fine day. We must ask the good girl who waits on you to 
take you for a run on the crisp snow." 



340 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

The little girl clapped her hands. " Yes," she said, " it 
will be nice, but mon pSre must have breakfast first." 

She rang the bell and proceeded to arrange everything, to 
have the stove lighted, to set out the breakfast-things in their 
little sitting-room, and to superintend the preparation cf 
choc )1 ate a la Frangaiae, for Laur^ had become quite a little 
woman in her ways : then, as she saw that her friend was 
Btill suffering, she sat by his side and sang to him in her 
sweet, childish way till his eyes closed. The little child-heart, 
by the outcome of its tenderness, had brought rest to the 
weary brain, the pain-racked soul. 

It was nearly midday when, all radiant with color and life, 
Laura returned from her ramble with the good-natured cham- 
bermaid. As she entered the room one of the waiters left it. 
She found L'Estrange dressed, and sitting in an easy-chair 
close by the stove, which showed a little patch of glowing red. 
He called her to his side, and lifting her on to his knees 
took off her warm cloak and hood with all the tenderness of 
a woman, then stroking back her fair hair he kissed her on 
the brow. " Laura, petite cherie," he said in a low tone, as 
if speaking to himself rather than addressing her, " the time 
has nearly come." 

She put her arms round his neck, and resting her fair head 
on his shoulder looked up into his strong, pale face. " What 
time, mon pSre ?" she asked in an awed whisper. 
" When thou and I must part, fillette." 
But the child lifted her head and shook her golden curls. 
The clear, bracing air, the brilliant sunshine, the glittering 
bnow had breathed a spirit of gladness into her heart. She 
could not see the necessity for such sad forebodings. 

" Mon p^re," she answered eagerly, " you should not say 
things like that ; indeed, indeed, it's very wrong. You are 
going back with me to mamma, who'll be ever so glad to see 
us ; and my own papa is to be found : he will thank you, mon 
p6re, for bringing me, and then we shall all be so happy 
togetlier." 

For this was always the end of the child's pluns. She 
could not imagine anything else. Her friend smiled, and 
then he sighed. "So it done, petite sage," he replied enig* 
matically, and Laura was perfectly satisfieJ. 



A TORMENTED SPIRIT. 341 

Onco or twi( e during that day the mysterious waiter inter- 
viewed L'Estrange, and each time Laura was condemned to 
be mystified. They spoke in a language which was a jargon 
to her; but she was accustomed to mystery where this strange 
friend of hers was concerned. 

The waiter was keeping him au courant in the most trivial 
details that concerned those inhabitants of the house in whom 
L'Estrange was interested. He heard of the hue-and-cry that 
followed the Austrian lady, and of her husband's despair ; he 
heard of the several arrivals, first Maurice Grey's, and then 
Arthur Forrest's ; he knew that they had dined together tete- 
a-tete and sat a long time over their wine, evidently in deep 
converse ; finally, when the two men were closeted in Mau- 
rice's room, his confidential emissary was hovering about, 
ready to report the slightest extraordinary demonstration. 
For L'Estrange did not credit Arthur Forrest with so much 
diplomacy as he had hitherto used in his treatment of the 
delicate mission with which Margaret had entrusted him, and 
he knew that fire lay hidden under Maurice Grey's cold re- 
serve. The name of his wife blundered out by a stranger, 
who would appear to know the sad details of her history and 
his own, might very possibly cause an explosion of some kind ; 
indeed, during that long evening, whose tedious hours not 
even Laura's gentle ministries could beguile, the Frenchman 
was on the alert. From moment to moment he expected to 
hear the door of the neighboring room pushed violently open, 
and to understand from his well-feed observer that the young 
peace-maker had been thrust out from the presence of the 
proud Englishman, who would feel himself doubly injured by 
this interference. 

Laura did not tell her friend about the strange look which 
had met hers that evening, though the child pondered it in 
her simple heart, trying to find out what there was in it that 
had afiected and fascinated her. She would have asked 
L'Estrange if he thought that this man who had looked at 
her with a kind of yearning in his sad face could be, indeed, 
the father they were seeking; but one of his dark moods was 
on him, and for the first time in all their intercourse she feared 
to break it. * 

Since their dinner in the afternoon he had not stirred from 



342 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

the one position, except when the mysterious informant had 
come in to report progress, and then he had looked at him 
from under his shaggy eyebrows with a glance that would 
have killed deceit at its very birth. At other times he re- 
mained silent, his hands clasped over an ancient staff, on his 
strong face a look of pain — but pain crushed down by ndcm- 
itable will — his lips and nostrils faintly quivering as any sound 
came from outside, his eyes fixed on the small patch of glow- 
ing red that was waning and fading out as the day passed 
away behind the western mountains. 

But though Laura feared to break in upon his silence, she 
did not fear him. She sat at his feet, curled up like a kitten 
wearied with play, on a crimson cushion that belonged to the 
heavy-looking couch, trying by the shimmering firelight to 
look over a book of very gaudy pictures which the landlady, 
who pitied her apparent isolation, had lent her. 

Evening deepened into the early night of the season. Can- 
dles were brought by Laura's friend, the good-natured Swiss 
chambermaid, and before the little girl had succeeded in tra- 
cing a history for half of the wonderful pictures in her book, 
she grew so sleepy that her friend was moved from his 
abstraction to ring the bell and give her into the care of 
Gretchen, after a most loving good-night and many tender 
recommendations to the waiting-maid to take every care of 
his little treasure. 

He did not leave his place by the fireside till his delicate 
ear told him that there waa nothing stirring in the h'-use but 
himself. 



PEACE, BE STILL. 343 

CHAPTER X. 

PEACE, BE STILL 

But what time through the heart and through the bridii 
God hath transfixed us, we, so moved before. 
Attain to a calm. Ay, shouldering weights of pain, 
We anchor in deep waters, safe from shore, 
And hear, submissive, o'er the stormy main 
God's chartered judgments walk for evermore. 

Was he to pass another night of racking pain, another 
night of restless wandering ? The little chest which held the 
only means by which this question, to him so awful, could be 
answered in the negative, lay at his feet ; his very soul was 
yearning for rest. Outside, the white mountains were sleep- 
ing, pure as angels undefiled, beneath the moonbeams ; from 
the next room, the door of which he had opened, came the 
light sound of the child's regular breathing; in the house 
was silence absolute. 

And his rest might be as absolute as any — nay, not only 
so, it might be filled with sensuous pleasure, such pleasure as 
his brilliant youth, that had gone by for ever, had often 
afforded him ; it might be clothed with images of beauty and 
delight. But, on the other hand, had he not chosen suffer- 
ing — suffering instead of delight — to be a soul-purifier, to 
atone, if atonement might be, for some of the self-seeking of 
his ruined life ? 

And he could delay no longer ; an act of expiation was to 
be wrought which would demand all the force of his soul to 
carry to a successful issue ; the father of the child he loved 
was at hand ; with all the strong energies of his soul awake 
he must meet him, and make him own that his enemy's words 
were the words of truth. 

Then — L'Estrange acknowledged it to himself with a sigh 
—the suffering whose ravages he dreaded did not overcloud 
his intellect, did not bewilder his brain, as its antidote had 
done ; rather, like the purging fire, it seemed to draw out and 
develop the greatness of the soul that was in him. 

The strong man shivered as he turned from his only hopei 



SU CHASTE AS ICE, PUBE AS SNOW. 

and began once again in the unhealthy activity of his heart 
and brain to think and reason, to live an inner life that was 
gradually, by its overpowering force, drawing away the life 
from his body. 

He bowed his face in his hands. Where was all this to end? 
he asked himself. Was he to go down to the grave with the 
burden of his own ruined life and of the lives he had ruiaed 
hanging like a millstone about his neck, dragging him down 
to the nether hell, without a hope save in the last vague dream 
of the infidel — an utter death, an eternal sleep? — and this, in 
his very darkest moments, L'Estrange had never brought him- 
self to believe. 

So intense was his mental life during the first part of that 
night that his physical sufferings were almost forgotten, but 
at last, as the slow hours went by, pain came, twinge after 
twinge, that would not be denied, and panting and exhausted, 
his great strength failing in the struggle, the man threw him- 
self down upon his bed, moaning faintly. 

A wild impatience followed. The spasms he experienced 
were of that gnawing, craving kind more difiicult, perhaps, 
than any other to be borne. 

Not the sharp stinging which rends the frame, and then, 
spent by very force, allows it to rest ; but the dull, ceaseless 
throbbing that nothing can stay, that gives no moment of re- 
spite to the overwrought nerves. L'Estrange at the moment 
felt as if it would madden him. His blood was coursing like 
liquid fire through his veins ; his hands and feet were burn- 
ing ; drops of agony stood on his brow. He crossed his room 
suddenly, and throwing open the window leaned out into the 
night ; but first — for through everything this strange man did 
ran the tender thoughtfuluess that could only have been 
prompted by a fine soul — he shut noiselessly the door of 
communication between his room and Laura's lest the chill 
night-air should touch his darling. He looked out upon a 
Btrange scene — the white earth, in shadow save where the 
DLoon had touched it with an unearthly radiance; the moun- 
tains looking verily like giants in the uncertain light, yet 
glistening and transparent where the night-born light was 
resting ; cloud-shadows, whose depth seemed infinite as the 
outer darkness of despair, blotting out here and there the 



PEACE, BE STILL. 345 

traiis^parent whiteness; behind one of the distant peaks a 
pale line, faint and tremulous, that told of coming dawn ; over 
all a weird unreality. 

The face that looked out into the dim night was as strange 
as the scene could be, though it lacked the utter stillness 
of the shrouded, moonlit earth. The eyes were wild and 
wandering, with an impatient, hungry look in them, as though 
they were searching, seeking, striving to draw from the visible 
the secrets of that which no eye beholds ; the mouth quivered 
with the storms of feeling ; the brow was contracted by a 
mortal agony, and from time to time the pale lips moved as 
if in pitiful appeal to some hidden power. But after a few 
moments of earnest gazing some of all this passed by. It 
would almost have seemed as though the influence of Nature's 
eternal calm had been breathed in upon his soul through the 
medium of sense, or rather perhaps it was a thought from 
within that swept over the tumult of the man's brain, so that 
suddenly his agony was stayed. 

Was it so very strange? Long ago, in the far ages, a Man 
to whom conflict and storm were known in all their fulness 
stood up on a dark night and said to the angry billows and 
raging winds, "Peace, be still." Was it altogether for the 
sake of that terror-stricken crew, or was it not also a sublime 
parable ? For, evermore, it is the same. The Man, present 
in the midst of the soul's tumult, bids in His own time — ^the 
best time for the stricken — that the storms which overwhelm 
it shall sink to rest. 

Thus it was with L'Estrange. In the silence and solitude 
he was finding the great Father, who, though we know it not, 
is never very far from any one of us. " God is here " was the 
thought that swept over him through the stillness of Nature, 
through the profound silence of the night. He knelt before 
the window and stretched out his hands to the midnight 
heavens. Who shall say what dreams, what possibilities, 
passed in that moment through his soul ? For with his errors 
and imperfections, his falseness and his folly, this man was one 
of the mighty few, a son of divine genius. Will they be 
judged by another code, I sometimes wonder, than the com- 
mon herd to whom their gigantic struggles, their vast tempta- 
tions, their agonies, their failures, must for ever be a life un- 



346 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

knoTMi, a sealed-up book? — such a man as Shelley, peering 
in his spirit's misery through the ages, then when nothing hut 
the aching void, the yawning nothing, answered his wild 
search, giving himself up to the proclamation of a dark in- 
fidelity ; or Byron, dying for a dream ; or Keats, breathing 
out his young life with the cry of a disappointed soul ? Will 
the misguided, distorted greatness find in the Hereafter a bet- 
ter sphere ? Have they, these mighty dead, even with the 
last breath of a life tortured with earth's blackness, received 
as by inspiration the fair beauty of undying truth into their 
souls? Who shall say? In the presence of mysteries 
like these we can only bow our heads and pray that so it 
may be. 

To L'Estrange a moment of such inspiration had come. 
He had prayed before. Often during these last days, when 
gradually the fetters of self-love had been falling off" from his 
soul, he had cried out in the darkness to the Father of spirits. 
But then He had been a grand abstraction ; now, for the first 
time. He was near and real. 

First happiness, then vengeance, then atoning suffering and 
self-abnegation, had been looked for as the life of his spirit's 
life. In that hour of awful sweetness they all fell off" from 
him. God looked down into the man's heart; God was what, 
all unconsciously to itself, that heart had been seeking, and 
there was a great calm. 

Sweetly the daughter of his affections had sung to him that 
evening about the Crucified ; to the man of the world her 
hymn had been an idle tale ; now all was changed. In the 
great stillness of God's calm upon his heart he was able to 
listen more truly. 

Bowing his head, the stricken man wept as the Gospel-story 
in its simple beauty surged in upon his heart. He had often 
reasoned about it. Calmly and coolly he had torn to shreds 
the arguments which men weaker but better than himself had 
brought to bear upon its truth. In this transcendent moment 
reasoning was not — it could not be. 

True, in the craving need of his own heart, in the sudden, 
awful revelation of his spirit's darkness, there he read its truth, 
and like a little child he wept before its unspeakaljle beauty 
and pathos. 



HAUNTING MEMORIES. 347 

L'Estrange ojuld never have told how long the time was 
that he passed on his knees before the open window looking 
out upon the snow. It was like a dream, but when he rose 
the white dawn was beginning to rise over the mountains. 

The spasms had left him ; he scarcely dreaded them now, 
for the mental struggles that had rent his very being had 
merged into a great calm. But as he shut the windoAV and 
tried to cross the room his knees trembled and he staggered 
strangely. 

Weakness as of a little child seemed to have come upon 
him, and weariness too — a blessed weariness. He threw him- 
self down upon the bed, and for the time forgot all his woes 
in sleep. 



CHAPTER XI 
HAUNTING MEMORIES. 

I am digging my warm heart 
Till I find its coldest part ; 
I am digging wide and low, 
Further than a spade can go, 
Till that, when the pit is deep 
And large enough, I there may heap 
All my present pain and past. 

It was late on the following morning when L'Estrange 
awoke. He felt strangely refreshed, and wondered for the 
first few moments what was this change which had come upon 
him. Then the remembrance of that night's conflict and con- 
quest returned. The calm was still in his heart, drowning in 
its depths all earthly yearnings. 

But more urgently than before he felt the necessity for 
action. He rang the bell, and his special attendant answered 
it. From him he learnt that the child, fearful of disturbing 
him, had taken her morning run with Gretchen while he 
slept, and that the two Englishmen had started from the hotel 
with alpenstocks and knapsacks, stating that they would prob- 
ably not return that evening. From scraps of their conversa- 
tion the man had gathered that the elder of the two was de- 



348 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

eiroui of showing the younger his home among the mountains. 
It was therefore more than probable that the chalet usually 
inhabited by Mr. Grey was their destination. 

Mr. Grey's servant, somewhat to his own displeasure, had 
been left behind at the hotel. 

To all this intelligence L'Estrange listened silently. Ho 
was surprised, for he had not imagined Maurice Grey would 
have taken so kindly to the young man who was interesting 
himself in his affairs ; he was disappointed, for on this -"'ery 
day he had determined to meet Maurice, and now another 
necessary delay must intervene. But he did not express any 
of his feelings to his attendant. He was accustomed to make 
use of men, but to all whom he made thus useful himself, his 
motives and his emotions were a sealed book. 

He rose, dressed with the help of the complaisant waiter, 
and went into the hotel-garden to wait for the return of his 
darling, and to try, by diligent exercise and exposure to the 
keen bracing air, to regain some of his old strength. 

In the mean time, Maurice Grey and Arthur Forrest were 
finding their way over the mountains to the chalet, which 
Arthur was curious to see. 

They were drawn together by a kind of mutual attraction 
that neither of them could explain to himself Arthur was 
occasionally very indignant with Maurice's cynicism ; he was 
almost afraid of his superior knowledge of the world; he 
shrank painfully from his ready sneer, and while he was with 
him lived in a constant state of agitation in his fear of let- 
ting out anything before the time, and thus widening the 
breach between husband and wife; yet he liked Maurice 
Grey, he admired his fine proportions, endowed him with 
all kinds of knowledge and wisdom, and was impatient of 
the hours that divided them. Maurice, on the other hand, 
was inclined to despise this boy's rawness and simplicity, and 
to despise himself for in any sense making a confidant of 
him, and yet he liked him; he enjoyed his society; the 
bright expressive eyes of the young man had the power of 
drawing him out, of making him talk about himself and the 
troubles of his life. 

Perhaps the secret of this strange attraction on his side 
might have been found in the young Arthur's sympathy and 



HAUNTING MEMORIES. 349 

frank admiration, for few men are above the pardonable 
weakness of liking to be admired and sought out. 

The paths that led to Maurice's dwelling-place were toler- 
ably steep, and in some places the snow" was soft, in others 
the frost made the paths slippery ; therefore during their 
walk Maurice and Arthur were too much engrossed with the 
one necessity of keeping their footing to find much breath 
for conversation. But they were both good walk(;rs and 
strong, stalwart men ; therefore, although they had started 
comparatively late in the morning, the sun had not dropped 
behind the mountains that shut in the valley before they 
were seated in Maurice's little room, a jug of whisky punch 
between them, and on the table the white bread and the 
meat with which Maurice had taken care to provide himself 
before leaving the hotel that morning. 

They found everything in first-rate order. On the pre- 
vious day Marie and her little grandchild had arrived. The 
stove had been kept alight all night, according to Karl's 
strict orders, lest the books and manuscripts should sufier 
from the damp, and the old woman had just finished a 
general cleaning up when her master and his visitor arrived. 

The dinner was certainly plain, but the two Englishmen 
did justice to it — Arthur perhaps appreciating it all the more 
for the absence of any suspicious-looking entrees. 

"What do you think?" said Maurice when they both 
paused at last from sheer exhaustion. " This is a very rough 
place ; can you manage to put up with it for a night or two ? 
If so, I will undertake to show you some of the finest points 
of view in the Alps, seeing which at this season, you know, 
will render you for all the future a respectable traveller." 

Arthur laughed : " Put up with it ! I should just think 
8C. I never saw anything so delightfully primitive. I quite 
envy yoi^ your little snuggery." 

A sad smile played round Maurice's lips, it softened his 
face marvellously : " I am scarcely a person to envy, and 
yet this had been my dream for many a long day. I thought 
it would make me happy." 

There was a bitter ring, a kind of irony of self, in the last 
words. He looked out meditatively over the snow. " Men 
are strangely constituted," he continued sadly; "the dream 



350 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

and hope of to-day are the weariness and disgust of to-mor- 
row." He turned to his young companion : " People will 
always insist upon buying their own experience at any cost, 
or else I should prove to you, as a lesson that I have pain- 
fully gained, how foolish it is to set one's heart too much on 
anything under the sun. ' Light come, light go ;' if we hold 
to our possessions lightly, the loss of them grieves us little 
I see in your eyes that my philosophy is repugnant." 

For Arthur read all Maurice's cynicism in the light of his 
history. His face flushed. " Depth of feeling is never 
wasted," he said earnestly ; " I ought to know that." 

Maurice had cleared away the remnants of their simple 
meal. They were sitting, one on each side of the small stove, 
discussing some famous cigars, a stock of which Arthur 
always had on hand. 

His remark made Maurice turn round to him suddenly : 
" That's rather a deep doctrine for one of your age ; but it 
reminds me you were to tell me something to prove that Sol- 
omon, who professed, by the bye, to understand human nature, 
was altogether wrong in that impolite statement of his about 
women. Stop, let me see ! I drank rather too much last 
night ; still, I don't think I am wrong." 

But Arthur turned away. His heart and courage had 
fallen suddenly. It had been easy enough to think and plan, 
to imagine how with heart-eloquence he would describe the 
woman he loved — how he could tfell of her quiet, self-denying 
life, of her constancy, of her undying memory of the past — 
how, when his story had been triumphantly told, he would 
give her name, and so dispel for ever the mist of falsehood 
which had risen in dark clouds about her husband's idea of 
her. The moment for all this had come, and he found that 
the heart-thrilling words would not answer to his summons, 
that his feelings were too intense, that the fear of failure 
paralyzed him. 

" Not now, not here," he said to himself, and then he rose 
and looked out of the window. 

The sun was setting over the mountains, and on their sum- 
mits a dark cloud was resting, but above it and beyond in a 
vast circle of rays the golden glory shone. It irradiated the 
pure snows till they blushed into beauty, it lit up the lioavens, 



HAUNTING MEMORIES. 351 

it glistened from the torrents. The whole landscape was 
transfigured — changed from the still fixity of the snow-bound 
North into the voluptuous warmth of an Oriental dream ; the 
dark fir trees showed crimson stems ; the reaches of billowy 
snow looked warm and inviting under the golden radiance; 
the distant peaks glowed and shone till to the excited fancy 
of the gazer they might have seemed hewn out of fire. 
Arthur looked, and the narrow roof seemed to press him 
down, the four walls of his friend's chalet were a prison. 

" I cannot tell it here," he said to himself ; " out there 
under the witness of the sky, in the presence of the pure snow- 
peaks, it may perhaps be easier." 

Maurice was looking at him curiously. " I fear I have 
been showing impertinent curiosity," he said lightly, " but you 
drew it on yourself. Why did you interest me so strangely?" 

" I spoke impulsively," replied Arthur in the same light 
manner, " and, I think, rather underrated the difficulties of 
what I was attempting. For this once you must excuse me. 
I have a certain disinclination, for which I really am at a 
loss to account, to telling my story (a very simple one, after 
all) in this place. If you can preserve your interest till to- 
morrow, I will promise not to disappoint you. Take me to 
the point you mentioned just now, and there I will tell you as 
well as I can." 

As he spoke the last words the young man's voice deepened, 
and there was a certain solemnity in his manner which 
aroused Maurice's curiosity ; but he said nothing more on the 
subject, and the two men smoked on in silence till the golden 
glory had passed from the earth, and the snow lay pale once 
more under the gray mystery of a northern night. Then 
Maurice looked at his young companion across the interval 
of shadow, and saw, by the light which gleamed fitfully from 
the open stove, that there was a deep thoughtfiilness on his 
brow. 

Perhaps it was this that drew him on to speak as he aid. 
" You have only begun life," he said, " I have lived out mine, 
at least all the good that is in it, and yet, I scarcely know 
how it is, I have been drawn on to speak to you as I seldom 
speak to either men or women. I don't say I have no friends. 
I have made many, and good ones too, in the course of my 



352 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

wanderings, and I have appreciated their friendship, but to 
the best of them all my life has been a sealed-up book." He 
paused a little, puffing away silently, and Arthur did not 
Bpeak, only the earnestness on his face deepened as he liter- 
ally trembled with hope. 

For Arthur's heart was as true as steel. He had thrown 
himself with a self-denying ardor that nothing could curb 
into Margaret's cause. She was still the queen of his heart, 
but since those first days, when her regal beauty and ap- 
parent friendlessness had driven him nearly mad with long- 
ing and desire, his queen had risen to a far loftier place in 
his thoughts and dreams. There was something very beau- 
tiful and rare in this unselfish devotion. Margaret for him- 
self, even if he had found that her husband was dead, Arthur 
never imagined for a moment ; in so far he had gained full 
victory over his uwn heart. Margaret happy, Margaret 
raised to her true position, restored to her undoubted rights, 
and by his instrumentality, — this was the proud desire of his 
soul. Therefore it was that he hung upon Maurice's words 
that evening, rejoicing with trembling that so far he had 
been successful. 

Young and inexperienced as he was, he saw the world- 
weary mau trusted him. This was something gained, a step 
in the right direction. 

Arthur scanned his companion's face curiously during the 
silence that followed his last words. It was a mobile face, 
though for years it had been trained to express nothing but 
cynic indifference to life and its concerns. On this special 
evening Maurice had given way, and emotions for which few 
of his friends would have given him credit were writing their 
impress on his brow. 

He got up suddenly, and crossing to the window shut out 
the pale snow. " It is desolate," he said in a low tone ; " it 
makes one shiver." Then he lighted a small reading-lamp, 
that cast a warm yellow light over the room, and sat down 
again. "I saw a picture once," he continued in the same 
low voice, " and the snow out there makes me think of it. 
It was an English scene, a bit out of a village, the church 
lit up from inside, a house near it, the pleasant firelight 
shining from within crimson curtains; outside, snow and 



HAUNTING MEMORIES. 353 

Jesolution. There was a solitary figure amongst it all — a 
woman with thin tattered clothes and haggard face in which 
could be seen the remnants of beauty. She was shivering 
alone in the cold and darkness, looking piteously in at the 
light. Some moral was tacked on to it, for, if I remember 
rightly, I came across this long ago in a book or magazine. 
The whole runs strangely in my mind to-night." 

"And what was the moral?" asked Arthur. 

" An unloved life or some such sentimental rubbish." 

He tried to laugh off the impression, but Arthur, who was 
deeply interested, said nothing to change the subject, and 
almost in spite of himself, as it were, Maurice returned to it. 
"Strange how this haunts me!" he muttered. "'An unloved 
life !' — poets' trash. Women can always console themselves, 
and the misery of the fair is given rather to reclining on 
velvet and down than shivering out in the snow." 

He laughed aloud, and raising his glass drained it at a 
draught; but there came a sudden change over his face, his 
brows knit, his hands worked convulsively. " If I had been 
mistaken — " he murmured, and his head sank upon his 
breast. Then, as the futility of his vague thoughts flashed 
over him, he raised it again. "There is no peace but in 
forgetfulness," he cried, and pouring out a glass of raw spirit 
he tossed it down his throat. 

There followed a few moments of silence which Arthur 
feared to break, then Maurice looked across at him with a 
sad smile. "Young man," he said, " it is a good thing to be 
happy. Misery and remorse change a man woefully. Ah, 
it is wonderful," he continued, and there was a plaintive ring 
in his voice — "wonderful to think how entirely they can 
change us — ^how we become morose, dark, fretful — how we 
look for the old landmarks and find them gone, vanished 
like a dream — how we become absolutely others than our- 
selves !" 

Arthur's voice was husky as he questioned : " Remorse ! 
jehat have you to do with that ?" 

"I once thought nothing. Great God!" — ^he lifted his 

gleaming eyes ; in the agony of the moment he seemed to 

have forgotten his companion — " we cannot all have patience 

like to Thine ; and I thought I acted for the best. I took 

23 



354 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

away my obnoxious presence, I left her to her chosen plea< 
Bures, I fled from my own disgrace." 

His head sank. Emotion, fatigue, strong drink had com- 
bined to unnerve him utterly. " The face in the picture is 
hers," he continued in a low, broken voice ; " last night I 
saw her so — pale, wasted by misery, an outcast — and I 
opened my arms to take her to a shelter, but she fled from 
me with horror." 

Arthur was listening with an interest so deep and earnest 
that for a moment he forgot his self-imposed caution. He 
started forward impulsively, and gazing into the bloodshot 
eyes of the man who faced him, " It was a lying dream," he 
cried. " She — 

But he broke ofi* suddenly, for Maurice looked at him in a 
strange, questioning manner. He could have bitten off" his 
tongue for its betrayal. " I mean — I mean — " he explained 
falteringly, " it was a strange dream." 

His explanation could not mend matters ; the mischief was 
done. Maurice was sufficiently himself to be able to detect 
a certain reality in those first hasty words. He looked at 
Arthur with suspicion. Could it be possible that the young 
man knew something of his history ? The bare idea made 
him hastily resume his cloak of proud reserve. 

He drew himself up, composed his face, and threw out his 
hands with a yawn : " I really should crave your indulgence. 
Something has come over me to-night. I feel as if I had been 
talking a considerable amount of nonsense." He shook his 
fist at the whisky -bottle. " There's the traitor. Then," bend- 
ing his head courteously, " it is long since I have enjoyed 
anything so pleasant as an evening gossip with a friend. 
Really, the worst of this kind of life is the difficulty of pass- 
ing one's evening. Come! a recipe for killing the time: 
what do you advise?" 

" I know no means but endurance," replied Arthur, trying 
to speak lightly, though his heart was full, for the earnestness 
had left Maurice's face, the smile of the cynic was playing 
round his lips. 

Indignant and disappointed, Arthur turned away, in case 
his less manageable features should betray him. The sphere 
of his experience was narrow, and therefore it was that iu 



TOLD AMONG THE SNOWS. 355 

this relapse to his indifferent mood he failed to sympathize 
with Maurice. 

It is only when the world has given thrust upon thrust to 
the heart, it is only when the dreary cry, " Vanity of vanities !" 
has written itself in all its desolation on the spirit, that these 
rapid changes from grave to gay, from deep earnestness to 
bitter cynicism, can be understood ; for they are the product 
of the world's harsh lessons, the carrying out into practice of 
a creed taught by repeated disappointments. They speak of 
the soul's fear of revealing itself. Its best and its highest it 
would cover over with the frostwork of frivolity and cynicism, 
lest the pearls of its spiritual being should be trampled under 
the feet of swine. 

Too often, unhappily, the result is that the pearls are buried 
irrecoverably and for ever, that the soul gains the indifference 
it assumes — an undying heritage of bitterness. 

Ah ! it is sad, infinitely sad, to think of a soul torn, ruined, 
in its struggles with wayward fate — too sa-d, if there were no 
beyond. But if man be weak, God is merciful. It may be 
that for the disappointed there is a haven, after all, in the 
great Hereafter to which all humanity is hastening. 



CHAPTER XII. 

TOLD AMONG THE SNOWS. 

Oh, she was fair : her nature once all spring 
And deadly beauty, like a maiden sword — 
Startlingly beautiful. I see her now I 

That was the end of anything like confidential intercourse 
between Maurice Grey and the young Arthur, so far as the 
evening passed in the chalet was concerned. They were both 
tired, and Maurice had once more allowed himself to take 
rather more strong drink than was good for him. 

It was a new fault. Hitherto, in all his dark mooda, 
through his dreary solitude, and, to him, almost as dreary 
times of gayety, he had always respected himself so far as to 



356 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

refrain from drowning his sorrows in so contemptible a way. 
Now, it seemed as thougli a crisis in his fate had come, as 
though he were destined to be swept away utterly in the 
numbing torrent of misery and loneliness. 

Arthur had to assist him to bed that evening, for he was 
almost incapable of doing anything for himself. The young 
man recovered very soon from the indignant displeasure into 
which Maurice's cynicism had thrown him. He saw the 
weary man, overcome as much perhaps by emotion and fa- 
tigue as by what he had taken, sink into a deep sleep, and a 
dim idea of the truth dawned in upon his mind. It softened 
him so much that he could scarcely keep from tears as he 
looked on the face of his new friend, so fine in all its outlines, 
yet so evidently wasted by care. And this was the long- 
sought, the earnestly-desired — Margaret'^s husband, the arbi- 
ter of her destinies, the object of her changeless love. 

Arthur felt a new love stirring in his heart ; he treated his 
companion with a tender reverence. 

He had some diflficulty and met a few harsh words before 
he could rouse Maurice so far as to half lead, half drag him, 
into his small bed-room. "When at last his efibrts had been 
successful, when he saw him resting in the death-like immo- 
bility of sleep upon the pillow, he half trembled about the 
effect upon Maurice's morning mood of this little n'.ght-epi- 
sode. Would he be humiliated at the remembrance of the 
weakness into which he had been betrayed, and shut up his 
heart still more from his companion? 

Arthur might have spared himself the trouble of forming 
any conjecture on the subject. Maurice the next morning 
remembered very little of his strange revelations, and nothing 
whatever of the torpor that succeeded. 

" I must have been tolerably done up last night," he said 
lightly when they met at the breakfast-table. "I don't really 
know how I got to bed. I think I must have undressed in 
ray sleep." 

" You seemed half asleep," said Arthur cautiously. " When 
we separated I was pretty far gone myself. I dare say this 
strong air has something to do with it." 

"It has the effect of champagne upon one's spirits — at 
least, so they say. I feel anything but lively this morning. 



TOLD AMONG THE SNOWS. 357 

However, if you are still in the same mind, we had better try 
what high latitudes can do for us. Do you feel up to a good 
climb?" 

" Thoroughly — in the very mood for exertion." 

" Well, then, old fellow ! set to work with a will, for if we 
intend to sup on anything more inviting than black bread and 
sausages, we must get back to the hotel this evening. That 
rascal Karl only half supplied us with bread and meat." 

" I could sup on anything after a walk like yesterday's to 
give me an appetite. However, Master Karl evidently in- 
tended that we should return to-day. What a joke he is ! If 
eyes could kill, I should certainly have been slain yesterday 
when I suggested that we could dispense with attendance." 

Maurice smiled : " Poor old Karl ! Well, I believe he is 
one of the few a man can trust. It is my chief reason for 
keeping him, for really, in some ways, he's an immense 
bore. That big fellow is as frightened of bogies as a baby. 
The dark weather we had sent him nearly out of his wits. 
It was chiefly in consideration for his feelings that I put up 
at the hotel the other day." 

" Then I ought, certainly, to be very thankful to him," 
said Arthur warmly; "he will think I have made him a poor 
return. I suppose we may leave our knapsacks under the 
care of your old woman here?" he continued. "It's all very 
well to talk of their convenience and that kind of thing ; I 
can only say that my shoulders ached considerably yesterday; 
they've not recovered yet." 

Maurice laughed : " You are a young traveller, my dear 
fellow ; however, I'll be merciful. Leave them here, by all 
means, and start this time untrammelled. But come ! Are 
you ready ? Now, if you take my advice — and I know some- 
thing of the mountains — you should begin quietly. We can 
quicken the pace when we get into the swing and get up the 
wind — two very serious matters, I can assure you." 

There had been sufficient thaw to make the roads practi 
cable, at least to men with strong boots and leathern gaiters. 
Many of the steeper paths were nothing better than water- 
courses. But this was a matter of minor import to the two 
men. It took Arthur some time, as his friend had predicted, 
to get into the swing, and they plodded on for some miles in 



358 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

silence, Arthur turning over and over in his head that tale, 
so oft told in the silence of his heart, of his first love, which 
had come upon him like a kind of magic, awakening him to 
a truer comprehension of life, a fuller appreciation of beauty 
— the tale which he must tell, before many minutes should pass 
over, to another — to a man unsympathetic perhaps, and hard. 
Once or twice he ventured to steal a glance at Maurice. His 
face was inscrutable. For the moment he was really nothing 
more than the quiet English gentleman, patient and endur- 
ing, as becomes one of his race — manly in his way of meet- 
ing difficulties, determined when it is necessary to overcome 
them. In walking, more especially in Climbing, there is 
abundant room for the display of character, and in Switzer- 
land a young Englishman of breeding and degree may be 
known at once by his bearing. 

Their route Avas very lonely. It would have shocked an 
American traveller, who does not care to pass over any but 
well-frequented roads, where pedestrians, chaises-a-porteur and 
heavily-laden mules are to be met with in numbers. But with 
the early break-up of the season these things had gone. Even 
the small sheds where light refreshments are temptingly dis- 
played in the summer months were empty and deserted ; the 
places of the men who for the small sum of fifty centimes had 
been wont to awaken the echoes of the everlasting hills, " knew 
them no more." Maurice and Arthur had the mountains to 
themselves. They reached about midday the point of which 
Maurice had spoken. He had not overpraised it. After a 
last little bit of climbing, so steep that it had taken all their 
attention to keep a footing on the slippery rock, they reached 
a kind of rocky plateau partly covered with snow, partly 
patched with the emerald green which belongs peculiarly to 
the Alps. Standing near a ragged pine tree, they looked up. 
The sky was of a deep unruffled blue, and against it, clear as 
crystal, shone out the dazzle of the snow-peaks ; lower down, 
a glacier, rendered pure by the late snow-falls, swept a radiant 
ice-river between gray, cloud-like rocks, in whose crevices the 
rich soft moss had made a home ; lower still, tier above tier, 
rose the straight stems and green crowns of the hardy pine ; 
while far below, at an almost inconceivable depth, that which 
f ould nut be seen made itself felt — a torrent had been muJsing 



TOLD AMONG THE SNOWS. 359 

for its waters a way throughout the ages, and its roar and hisa 
rose evermore into the daylight. 

Arthur gazed silently for a few minutes, then turned to his 
friend a pale and earnest face. " Beautiful !" he said in a low, 
impassioned voice. He bent his young head. " It make me 
think of her." 

Maurice smiled. He was pleased with the frank expression 
of enjoyment, and in his answer there was an elder man's 
indulgence to the amiable weakness of a younger : " Come ! 
here's a forsaken shed looks as if it had been left on purpose 
— faces the sunshine and sheltered from the wind. "We can 
sit down and rest if you like, take our brandy and water, and 
eat the crusts we were provident enough to bring, for, by Jove! 
in these regions, at least, a man can't live on air ; then you must 
tell me about this mysterious ' her,' in whom I really begin to 
take an alarming interest. Why, old fellow, what's come over 
you ? Here, take some brandy. You've been doing too much. 
One oughtn't to overdo this kind of thing at first." 

But Arthur put away the brandy-flask with an attempt at a 
smile. Not fatigue, but a sudden emotion had overcome him. 
Margaret's fate seemed in his hands. It was trembling in the 
balance, and he felt, for the moment, powerless by excess of 
feeling. 

" I will drink nothing, thank you," he said ; and he sat down 
an a stone bench in full view of the radiant snow-peaks. They 
were sheltered from the bleak wind by one of the walls ; the 
opening of the shed let in a flood of sunlight. It might have 
been a summer's day. 

Maurice spread his overcoat on the ground and stretched 
himself out luxuriously, with his face toward Arthur. " A fter 
labor, rest," he said lightly; "but come, I am impatient; let 
the mystic lady appear." 

He laughed as he spoke, but there was no answering merri- 
ment in Arthur's face. He looked away from Maurice toward 
the mountains, "I wish to God she might!" he said earnestly. 
•' If her sweet face were here my poor words would be useless. 
It would tell its own tale of long-suffering, of angelic patience, 
of truth, of purity. But — " he felt, though he did not dare 
to look round, that the face of his companion expressed calm 
philosophic wonder, that his lips were curled into the faintest 



S60 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

possible sueer — "I did not intend to rhapsodize. ISIy tale 
should speak for itself plain, unvarnished facts, which I defy 
the falsest being that ever lived to gainsay." 

He paused, and Maurice sighed. "The young man is 
evidently cracked on this point," was the burden of his 
thought. " I am in for a good half hour of ecstasies. Well, 
1 brought it on myself. Patience is the only remedy. — Per 
mit mo," he said aloud ; " this promises to be rather exciting 
— I must hear it through the medium of my usual sedative." 
He lit a cigar, and the blue wreaths of smoke curled up 
into the sunshine, while Arthur, his task rendered all the 
more difficult by his companion's nonchalance, struggled to 
find the truant words in which he had thought to clothe his 
subject. " It is not very long since I first met her," he said 
quietly, " but it seems a lifetime, for the meeting changed me. 
In the light of her history I read that life has a certain real- 
ity ; in the depths of her sad eyes I saw that endurance an»? 
self-denial are beautiful and good. It must have been early 
in tV.e month of May — yes, I remember, the Exhibition of tlio 
Royal Academy had not long been open — I strolled in one 
day to amuse myself and pass an hour or two of the after- 
noon. My cousin and fiancee was to have met me there. 
She did not appear, and I was considerably indignant, for 
at that time I believed that all womankind owed me a debt 
of gratitude, simply for being and giving them the light of 
my countenance. You see, women had spoiled me from my 
babyhood upward. But enough about myself. 

" As I was wandering about, discontented and cross, a pic- 
ture took my fancy. I sat down on the seat that faced it to 
examine it in detail. There was only one other on the same 
bench (for it was tolerably late and the rooms were thinning), 
a lady, but I paid little attention to her, as her dress was 
shabby and she wore a close bonnet and thick crape veil. It 
had been my habit to ogle only the well-dressed ladies — oth- 
ers offended my fastidious taste ; but when this stranger fell 
back suddenly in a deep faint I did my duty as a gentleman 
(there was no one else in the room at the moment) — I rose 
hastily to offer her assistance. 

" Then for the first time I saw her face, as the bonnet and 
veil had fallen back. Such a face ! I wish I could describe 



TOLD AMONG TEE SNOWS. 361 

it - -its purity of outline, its exquisite marble-like coloring,, its 
deep sadness. She had a quantity of golden hair : as I tried 
to rai^e her it fell down in a perfect shower over my arm. I 
was paralyzed — a sudden fever possessed me. I could have 
carried off the mysterious lady there and then, and hidden 
her away from every eye. But do what I would I could not 
restore her to consciousness, and I began to tremble. I had a 
kind of objection to calling in the assistance of any passing 
stranger. At the critical moment, however, like the good 
genius in a fairy-tale, my kind little cousin appeared, and in 
a very few moments took the matter out of my hands alto- 
gether. She was as enthusiastic as I had been, and far more 
successful. In a few moments we had the pleasure of seeing 
our fair lady restored, and of taking her back to her home, 
which turned out to be only a miserable lodging in the 
gloomiest part of London. 

" If I had been in love with her in her fainting condition, I 
tell you honestly that when I saw her eyes open, when I heard 
her voice — above all, when I read that deep sadness in her 
face — I was ten times more in love than before. But such was 
the influence of her gentle womanly dignity I dared express 
nothing either by word or sign. She thanked us with all the 
cordiality of a lady, but utterly and absolutely denied herself 
to us for the future, and I could not think of disobeying. In 
accepting our services she was like a queen dispensing her 
favors. All I could hope was that kindly chance would 
favor me. For the next few days I could think of nothing 
else : her face followed me like a dream of beauty that haunts 
the soul. My one hope was in the picture-galleries. As you 
may believe, I attended them daily, and some days later I 
saw her again in the same place. This time she did not see 
me. I watched her, myself unseen. Unhappily, a false 
counsellor was at hand. He had traced the direction of ray 
glance before I knew he was near. I took his odious advice ; 
I was weak enough to believe him. In disobedience to her 
express commands I visited her at the address to which we 
had taken her." 

Maurice's cigar had died down ; he was listening with ap- 
parent interest. "And you received a rebuff for your pains,' 
he said lightly. 



i62 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Arthur flushed : "A rebuff! say rather a rebuke; and such 
a gentle, womanly one that it cut me to the very soul. I felt 
that, coUte que coUte, I must know more of her; but I could 
not do it in that way, you know. I was puzzled and baffled, 
doubtfiil how to act. Then came in the gentle self-denial, the 
noble trustfulness of another woman to my assistance. My 
cousin Adele read my sadness, and was not long in pu'.ting 
her finger on the cause. She helped me ; she made herself 
Margaret's friend — " 

Arthur stopped suddenly. He had let out the name, which 
he had intended to bring in at the end of his tale — a grand 
finale. 

His sudden and evidently conscious pause gave the error 
significance. In a moment Arthur saw what he had done. 
A tremor passed through Maurice's frame. He turned round 
sharply and fixed the young man with his stern eyes. "Why 
do you stop ?" he said. " Go on, if your tale be worth the 
telling." 

And Arthur continued falteringly : " We were able to give 
her some assistance — that is, my cousin did. In her lonely 
and unprotected condition she had been tortured by the per- 
secutions of the man who, as I afterward found out, had 
wrought the wrong from the effects of which she had been 
suffering during those long years. To live out her solitary 
life in peace, she had hidden herself in an out-of-the-way sea- 
side village. Her visit to London had been made for the 
purpose ^f gaining some employment, her income proving 
insuffi:' nt for the education of her only child, a daughter, 
whom i-1... aad brought up in strict seclusion." 

Maurice's face was turned from Arthur, but as, almost 
insensibly to himself, the young man's voice grew stern and 
deep, he saw that his companion winced and cowered. It 
was almost as though he had received some unlooked-for blow. 

" In London," continued Arthur, " the ruffian came upon 
her traces. Mrs. Grey feared and hated him — the very sight 
of him was odious to her. It was only to save her name — 
her husband's name, as I afterward learnt — from public notice 
that she refrained at this time from calling in the strong arm 
of the law. 

" To baffle him and preserve her privacy she took j efuge 



TOLD AMONG THE SNOWS. 363 

in flight ; my cousin helped her, and from that day dated 
their warm friendship. She returned then to her own home — 
the little village by the seaside. Ad^le knew her address, I 
was not taken into their confidence ; I was sufiered to be use- 
ful, but I knew nothing, and yet even in that usefulness I 
reckoned myself happy. 

" After this weeks passed by of which I can scarcely give 
an account — weeks during which my life might have been 
summed up in one short sentence — I was in love. I felt it 
was hopeless. My cousin, who knew more of Mrs. Grey's 
history than I did, let me feel this whenever — and it was very 
often — she was the topic of cooversation between us. She 
herself had not given me the faintest encouragement, yet I 
hoped against hope. I thought, I studied, I planned, I put 
off my idleness. My dream was to gain fame and distinction 
by my own efforts. It was all for her. Ah !" — once more 
the young man was warming to his subject — "words fail 
when I try to express what her influence was. I became a 
different man ; the memory of her goodness and beauty, of 
her life of self-denial, changed me utterly. But at last the 
craving to see her face again, to know more certainly that my 
hope was vain, became almost too great to be borne. You 
see, I was young, and liad not been accustomed to this kind 
of thing. It preyed upon my health and spirits. Besides 
all this, certain disagreeable and — as I must always main- 
tain — utterly unfounded rumors with regard to Mrs. Grey 
were flying about." 

Again Maurice winced and shrank, but this time Arthur 
did not pause. 

He went on rapidly : " These things maddened me : if she 
had been an angel from heaven I could not have believed 
more steadfastly in her truth. I longed to make myself her 
champion, to gain from herself the right to protect her. Then 
once more my cousin helped me. She gave me the address I 
wanted, she sent me to find our friend, she told me to offer 
her my services. 

" As you may imagine, it was not necessary to urge the 
matter. I found my way to the seaside village. I entered 
the little cottage where her quiet, lonely life had been lived 
out, and there I learned the secret of her sadness. It had 



36^ CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

wrouglit upon her fearfully since we parted in London 
When firi.t I saw her she was sitting in her garden ; I was af 
the window of her drawing-room. I thought that death was 
written' on her face, it was so worn and wasted, so utterly for- 
lorn, but beautiful still. Another trouble had come to over- 
whelm her : her little child, a girl, in whom all the affection 
of her heart was centred, had been stolen from her in some 
mysterious way." 

In his earnestness Arthur's voice grew husky : " I forgot 
my own desires ; all I had come to say passed away from my 
mind ; only I threw myself heart and soul at her feet, im- 
ploring her to use me for her service, and " — the boy's voice 
sank — " she trusted me ; she told me something of her his- 
tory ; she let me know that she had one craving, one longing 
desire." 

He paused. Maurice had risen to a sitting position ; his 
face was buried in his hands, his great frame was convulsed. 
" It was — ?" he asked, fixing his eyes suddenly on his com- 
panion's face. " Speak, and at once." 

Arthur rose and stood before him. " Maurice Grey," he 
said, "your wife is pure as an angel, white as the snow up 
there. Her one thought through these long years has been 
of you. The name she teaches her child to lisp is yours. 
She loves you only ; her heart is single. All she asks is this 
— to speak to you face to face, to see you again before she 
dies. This is the quest that brought me here, for I have 
hunted for you through the length and breadth of Europe — 
sought you as a man seeks his enemy. It was to tell you 
this, to bring you a message from your wife." 

He bowed his head : " God knows it has been done in 
singleness of heart. All I wish or seek is her restoration to 
happiness. I have not said half I intended. I greatly fear 
I am a poor pleader, but, Maurice Grey, I call upon you to 
listen to me. Return to England, see your wife, judge for 
yourself; you will find then that you have both been the 
victims of some terrible mistake." 

He ceased, but Maurice did not answer, and once more hia 
fece was averted. 

Arthur's heart sank. " It has been all in vain," he said 
to himself. " Oh, how shall I tell Margaret ?" 



TCLD AMONG THE SNOWS. 365 

Mechanically the two rose, and Maurice preceded Arthur, 
vnthout a single word passing between them, until they stood 
where two roads met. There Maurice stopped and turned to 
his companion. "You must pardon me," he said, "if I say 
very little just now ; I must be alone." He put his hand to 
his head. "I must think. The hotel is over there; you 
cannot possibly miss the road. I must return to the chalet." 

He seemed to be passing through some severe mental 
struggle, for he paused, then added, " In the mean time, for 
your kind intention to her and to me I thank you." 

He turned away, and in a few moments was lost to Arthur's 
following gaze in the intricacies of the mountain-paths. 
Sadly, yet with a certain rising of hope in his spirit, the 
young man went on to the hotel. 



PART V. 

THE MYSTERY SOLVED-THE WORKERS REWARDED 



CHAPTER I. 
WAITING. 



Look ? I would rather look on thee one minute 

Than paradise for a whole day — such days 

As are in heaven. > 

Autumn had fallen upon the little village by the seaside 
where Margaret was waiting and hoping and longing, with 
still no tidings, or but very scant ones, of her lost. She and 
Ad^le were left almost alone, for the bleak winds and stormy 
seas had driven away the few visitors. It was a very dif- 
ferent scene from the one which Arthur had looked in upon 
on that sunny August day not so many weeks before, for now 
the balmy summer winds had given place to strong bluster- 
ing gales ; the trees, almost bare, shivered in their nakedness ; 
and instead of the soft, continuous murmuring of rippling 
waters, there came ever and anon to the ear the boom of 
waves breaking in upon the shore. It was a dreary time. 
Chill mists and equinoctial gales divided the sea between 
them, while the dank earth-smell of decaying leaves and dy- 
ing blossoms made the earth desolate. 

The two women in the little cottage, knit together by so 
strange a tie, fought vigorously against the influence of the 
Beason, but there were times when it was too strong for them 
— times when Adele would read danger in the stormy seas 
•ind long passionately for Arthur's safe return — times when 
Margaret would fear that her hope had been vain, that never, 
in all the long life that lay before her, would she see her 
M6 



WAITING. 367 

uasbaud again or know the mystery of his long forgetful- 
ness. 

Through it all Margaret and Ad^le clung to one another ; 
tlaeir mutual friendship was a source of great comfort to 
both. Adele was unlike many others of her sex. The know- 
ledge that Margaret was the woman who had first called out 
her cousin's force of character, instead of making her sick 
with jealousy, filled her soul with loving reverence i'or hei 
who had been the cause of this awakening. She never hid 
her frank admiration, her untiring love and sympathy, from 
her companion; and what wonder that Margaret returned 
her feelings, honored her as she deserved, and reckoned her 
friendship the most precious thing her years of sufiering had 
brought her ? They were difierent, these two who had been 
thrown in so strange a manner upon one another's society — 
as different in character as they were in appearance; and 
perhaps, strange as it may seem, the younger of the two, who 
seemed little more than a child with her flaxen hair and 
bright blue eyes and general fragility, was stronger in some 
ways than the woman of queenly stature, of much experience, 
of many woes. 

In any case, since that evening when Arthur left them the 
relations between them were partially reversed, for now it was 
Margaret who leaned upon Adele for support and comfort. 
When her courage was about to fail utterly ; when, weary and 
heart-sick, she was ready to arraign God himself for cruelty 
and injustice ; when the long days which would have to pass 
before anything certain could be known seemed so hard to 
live through that she would clench her hands and pace up 
and down, seeking rest and finding none, — then the younger 
and more inexperienced would bring her strength, would 
speak with a calm assurance she was far from feeling, would 
use a gentle authority in enforcing rest that Margaret found 
it difficult to resist. 

" I wonder how it is, Adele," she said one day when, after 
a paroxysm of bitter weeping, the young girl had soothed her 
into something like rest — " I wonder how it is that you have 
such power ? A few moments ago everything seemed hope- 
less. You tell me to hope, and my courage comes back. 
What makes you so certain ?" 



368 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

" I scarcely know," replied the young girl ; she was silent 
for a few moments, then added in a low tone, " I beliove in 
God." 

Margaret put out her hand ; it had grown thin and trans- 
parent during these last days : " Darling, I know, but He 
allows wrong." 

" Not for ever," replied Ad^le firmly, taking the offered 
hand in her warm grasp. "Margaret, be patient — your 
wrong will end — the truth will be known." 

" But if he does not know it, what will be the use ? And 
perhaps he is dead. Ah, listen !" She raised her hands and 
pressed them against her ears. 

"Only the wind, dear; but why need you mind that? 
October is a stormy month, and those we love are far inland. 
Come ! I see I must read Arthur's last letter to convince you 
that the meeting has not taken place on the stormy seas, with 
only a plank between them and destruction. Confess, noW; 
something like this was working in your brain." 

" I am very foolish — I know it." 

Addle stooped and kissed her friend : " You are weak, dar- 
ling. Remember how patient you were with me when my 
strength seemed as if it would not come. Now it is my turn 
to keep your courage up ; you are wasting away to skin and 
bone with fretting, Margaret. Have faith !" 

"In what, Adele?" 

" In yourself — in God — in the future," replied the young 
girl quietly. 

She rose from her seat by Margaret's side and fetched her 
Bible. We learn in very different ways. To this young 
girl, trained from her babyhood to think .of nothing better 
and higher than dress and gayety, than self-pleasing in some 
form, religion had come of itself. 

Addle had always loved to think of the something that for 
ever lies beyond this <yorld and its fleeting joys ; so it was 
not strange that in her hour of perplexity she should turn 
instinctively to this for comfort and help. 

The afternoon of that chill October day waned, the last 
flickering rays of light fled, while the young girl read softly 
of that beyond — the city that hath no need of the sun, the 
fair land where night is not. 



WAITING. 369 

" Patience," she had said. 

' I will have patience," whispered Maigaret, " even to the 
end," she added faintly, "for the morning cometh." She 
paused for a few moments, as if in enjoyment of new rest ; 
but suddenly, as it were, the full import of her thought broke 
over her: " Earth holds my treasures," she cried passionately. 
-' God Forgive me ! I cannot wish to leave them yet. Ad^le, 
light the lamp and bring that green book from my table. An 
old story is haunting me to-night. It has followed me in my 
strange life, for sometimes it seems to me that I have loved 
the human too much. Will you read it for me, dear?" 
She repeated some of the lines in a low tone : 

" Then breaking into tears, ' Dear God,' she cried, ' and must we see 
All blissful things depart from us or e'er we go to Thee ? 
Ay, sooth we feel too strong in weal to need Thee on that road, 
But woe being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not on God.' " 

Ad^le's eyes filled with tears: "Not to-night, dear, it sounds 
so dreary." 

" Yes, to-night. I feel as if the good and evil were strug- 
gling together in my heart, and I have a certain craving to 
hear the old story, which long ago, when I was an uncompre- 
hending child, used to move me to tears : 

" ' Onora ! Onora ! her mother is calling.' " 

Ad^le said no more. She began to read the " Lay of the 
Brown Rosary " in a soft low voice, that trembled often from 
excess of feeling. It seemed real and possible in the tremu- 
lous half light of the little room, the sound of boisterous 
winds and breaking waves running through it like a vivid 
illustration of its imagery ; Margaret's fair face, in its pure 
jlelicate outline, her pale patient hands folded calmly, giving 
a kind of witness to its truth. She listened with apparent 
calm, but once or twice her face flushed, and now and then 
the tears would roll one by one down her pale cheeks. 

Adele read well. She knew how to put the true spirit of 
the scene into the words that represented them. She came t*? 
the third part, the spirits of good round the maiden's bed : 



370 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

" How hath she sinned ? 
In bartering love, 

God's love, for man's," 

when she was suddenly interrupted. 

Margaret had started up, her eyes and cheeks on flame ; 
" There are steps outside. Addle ! Addle ! go and see." 

Adele went to the window, while Margaret shaded the lamp. 
"A man standing outside," she said, "hunting for the latch of 
the gate. Be calm, dear ; it's only the postman. He prom- 
ised to come if there should be any letter to-night. He's very 
good not to have forgotten. And such a night, too ! Poor 
old fellow ! I must tell Martha to give him supper." 

" But the letter ! the letter !" said Margaret, sinking back 
upon her pillow. The flush of excitement had died out from 
her cheeks, leaving them deadly pale. 

Adele forgot the letter and the postman. She rushed to 
her friend's side. 

" I thought he had come back," said Margaret faintly. 
" Don't look so frightened, dear ; this is nothing," but she 
moaned as if in pain, " O God ! if this is to last much longer 
I cannot, cannot bear it !" 

Addle stooped to raise her friend, and her warm clasping 
arms spoke boundless love and sympathy : " Be of good cour- 
age, Margaret ; perhaps this is to say that they are near." 

But the young girl's heart sank. What if, after all, their 
aacrifices and suffering should be in vain? for Margaret was 
visibly sinking. 

It sometimes happens so. The brave heart that has borne 
unflinchingly a weary weight of woe fails suddenly when hope 
— ^but hope that must be waited for — succeeds. And Margaret 
had been tried almost past endurance by her life of solitude. 
A glass of water revived her for the moment. She did not 
faint, and in the interval Martha brought up three letters. 
Two were from Arthur, the other from Mr. Robinson, who 
was still acting, or professing to act, as Margaret's legal ad- 
viser. 

This was set aside for after-perusal. They did not reckon 
very much upon his zeal and earnestness. But Margaiet's 
letter from Arthur was eagerly seized, almost too eagerly, for 



WAITING. 371 

when she had opened it the words swam before her eyes ; she 
found it impossible to decipher it. 

" Read it, Adele," she said ; " my eyes are dim this evening." 

It was the letter that had been written in Moscow — the let- 
ter that had begun so joyfully, that had ended in a cloud. 
Arthur had not let them know in his letter the reason for the 
sudden discouragement, but the two women read it and their 
hearts sank. 

They had received one letter before this. It had told of 
the meeting with Laura in Paris. In it, too, Arthur had an- 
nounced, with all the sanguine assurance of youth, that the 
next letter, to be written in Moscow, would certainly bring 
positive news. He could see no reason for doubting this. 
The second letter had met with certain delays en route, and 
the very length of the interval had in her most courageous 
moods filled Margaret with hope. 

When, therefore, the long looked-for letter came, and her- 
alded nothing but another endless journey, another weary 
search, her heart sank, her courage failed suddenly. 

She turned her face to the wall and wept. " I shall never 
live to see it," she moaned. 

Ad^le was bewildered ; she scarcely knew how to comfort 
her friend, for her own heart was sad. This unfolding of an- 
other weary age of suspense and delay had disappointed her 
bitterly. In her despair she turned to the lawyer's letter. It 
might possibly promise hope from another source. 

She read it hastily, then, stooping over her friend, " Listen, 
Margaret dear ; you must be brave and not give way. Mr. 
Robinson is to be here to-morrow ; perhaps he may bring news 
about Laura." 

But the mother shook her head : " No, no ; my little one is 
lost — lost I Child, I tell you, God is punishing me. I have 
sinned." 

" Margaret, be calm. How have you sinned ?" 

But the young girl trembled as she spoke, there was so in- 
tense a sadness in Margaret's face. 

She raised her head from the pillow, and throwing back the 
long waves of yellow hair from her face and eyes looked 
wildly at her companion. And then she laughed — a low 
hollow laugh that made Adele shiver. 



372 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

" Jo bartering love, God's love, for man's I" she cried, 
and leaped from the bed, for the madness of fever was 
on her. "And what is worse, I do it still," she cried. " Yes, 
I would barter my soul — my soul, do you hear ? — only to see 
him once" — from a shriek her voice sank into plaintive 
wailing — " to feel his hand upon my hair as in the old days — 
to hear him call me love, wife. Oh, Maurice, Maurice !" 

(^A-dele was frightened, but she would not call for assistance. 
Her tears falling fast, she threw her arms round her friend 
and tried by gentle force to make her lie down again. 

But at first Margaret resisted. " Let me alone," she cried ; 
"none of them understand, for men cannot love like women. 
I must go myself and tell him or he will never know. He 
might have done wrong — / should have loved him still. 
Dear, I could never have left you for these long years without 
a word, a sign ; and what had I done?" Her voice sank, she 
fell back on the bed. " It was God's will. I loved him more 
than Heaven — more than goodness." 

The paroxysm had exhausted her. Adele covered her feet 
with a shawl. Margaret closed her eyes and fell into a 
troubled sleep, which lasted about half an hour. When she 
awoke the room was in darkness, only the white moonlight 
streamed in under the raised blind, and there was the sound 
of bitter weeping by her bed. She put out her hand : "Adele, 
are you there ? "What is it, dear ?" 

"I thought you were fast asleep;" and the young girl 
choked back her sobs courageously. 

" But what has happened, Ad^le ? what makes you cry like 
this?" 

" Don't ask me, please, but try to sleep again." 

" Child, you must think me very selfish. Was it on my ac- 
count you were crying? I think I must have said some strange 
things before I went to sleep, but I forget what they were — 
indeed, I sometimes fear my brain is giving way. But, Addle 
dear, T can't allow you to grieve for me in this way. Perhaps 
it wag something else. Tell me. Come, I intend to know." 

She drew one of Adele's cold little hands from her face and 
held it lovingly, then the young girl told out her trouble in a 
few simple words. 

Her religion was the growth of her loving heart ; she h id 



WAITING. 373 

no particular doctrines, for so-called theology always seemed 
to her too hard to be understood, but she believed, in the full 
simplicity and truth of her young soul, what many religion- 
ists by their harsh doctrine practically deny — that God, the 
Father of spirits, is a merciful God, "tender, compassionate, 
boundless in loving-kindness and truth." She wept that night 
because the friend whom she loved so deeply would not take to 
her soul the comfort of the truth that God loved her. 

It had come over Adele's sympathetic heart that evening 
like a kind of agony that the loving God is for ever, through 
the long ages, misunderstood and denied — that while He is 
calling iu His tenderest tones to the stricken, they will look 
to any comfort rather than His for help in their trouble. 
" God is angry with them — God is punishing them," when in 
reality " God is with them — God is loving them." She told 
it all to Margaret in a voice often broken with tears, and her 
earnest conviction gave a certain reality to her words. 

Margaret's sore heart was soothed. "It may be," she said. 
"God grant it! Dear, I was beginning to feel Him near, 
but now the earthly things, the longings of youth, have come 
back with this delayed hope. They stand between my soul 
and God ; I must long for them more than I long for Him." 

" And who told you He would be angry, Margaret ? Could 
He wish you to do what is contrary to nature ? He gave you 
these earthly desires, this longing, this love. I sometimes 
think" — the young girl's voice sank, she bowed her head 
reverently — " that Christ became a man for this, not only that 
He might understand us, but that we might know He under- 
stands. It is such a good thing ; it helps us to bear." 

Margaret smiled : " I think it will come. I am better 
already ; but, dear, where did you learn all this wisdom ?" 

There was a knock at the door which prevented an answer. 
The landlady's little nephew was standing in the passage, a 
few choice flowers in his small hands. He wanted to say 
good-night to Mrs. Grey, and his auntie had sent her some 
flowers. 

It was the best possible diversion. The child's blue eyea 
smiled up into those of the weary woman, and they brought 
her pleasant memories. She took the child up on the bed 
kissed him tenderly and listened to his infant prattle. 



374 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Then when the landlady appeared, quiet and rfjspectful, 
but allowing her honest sympathy to be seen, to ask whether 
the little boy were troublesome and to say that it was his bed- 
time, Margaret turned to her comforter with something like 
hope in her face. " Child," she said, " you are right ; God is 
merciful. I will trust Him." 

They slept together that night, for Margaret's nerves were 
unstrung, she could not bear to be left alone ; but both of 
them slept calmly, and a peace, verily Heaven-born, brooded 
over the small company of women in their temporary home 
within the circle of the sea-sounds. 



CHAPTER n. 
THE LAWYER GAINS HIS POINT 

With lips depressed as he were meek, 

Himself unto himself he sold : 
Upon himself himself did feed — 

Quiet, dispassionate and cold. 

Mr. Robinson in the mean time had not been idle. He 
^-->uld certainly never have presented so unsullied a front 
before the world if he had ever been idle where his own in- 
terests were concerned. During those weeks, while L'Estrange 
and Margaret's child had been wandering — while Arthur had 
been throwing himself into the task of unravelling the mys- 
tery that surrounded Maurice Grey and his desertion — while 
Margaret, sick at heart, had been waiting and watching — he 
had been putting all his energy into the task of winding up 
her affairs in such a way as to make it appear that in their 
management he had been guilty of nothing but a little par- 
donable imprudence. He had been obliged to sacrifice some 
of his own interests in the process, but this was a matter of 
very small moment. 

Mr. Robinson was careful, even as regarded trivial sums, 
but he was too clever a man of the world not to kaow the 
impolicy of the " penny-wise, pound-foolish system." A small 
eacrifice that would have the effect of impressing the world 



THE LAWYER GAINS HTS POINT. 375 

with his upright character would, he knew, bring in returns 
fully commensurate to the outlay. He did not, therefore, 
hesitate to pay up, out of his own pocket, as he magnani- 
mously put it to some highly-impressionable lady clients, that 
amount of Mrs. Grey's capital which had been lent on insuffi- 
cient security to the bankrupt trader ; but (and this he did 
not tell the ladies) for the whole transaction he made both 
sides pay heavily. The man of business was kept under the 
lawyer's thumb for further use, and Mrs. Grey, out of the 
capital sum, had to pay not only the expenses, which were 
heavy, but also certain sundries, including various advances 
of twenty pounds at a time for maintenance, setting on foot 
of a search for Mr. Grey and his daughter, letters innumer- 
able, railway journeys and interviews. Mrs. Grey had even 
the pleasure of defraying the expenses of a trip to Paris 
taken by her lawyer at the moderate charge of five guineas 
a day, for the purpose of personally investigating the city 
with a view to the recovery of Mrs. Grey's daughter. That 
she had not been met with, either in the Bois de Boulogne or 
on the Boulevards, was not Mr. Robinson's fault. He care- 
fully frequented both. " Honesty is the best policy." One 
of the ladies to whom Mr. Robinson mentioned this matter 
quite incidentally (it illustrated aptly some of her own afiairs) 
put his name down instantly in her will for one thousand 
pounds ; another reported the story to a lately-widowed friend, 
who at once appointed this upright man her solicitor and con- 
fidential adviser. Mr. Robinson held his head higher, and 
at the next cottage-meeting he attended gave out for the text, 
" Godliness hath the promise of this life and of that which is 
to come" — a fact, he proceeded to say, which was strangely 
borne out by his own late experiences. But this was iuci- 
dental, a providential side-wind. The real object of his atten- 
tion at this time was to get rid altogether of Mrs. Grey's 
affairs, which, as she had the power in her hands of appoint- 
ing another trustee, he knew it was possible to do. He was 
anxious, therefore, to press the matter forward, that he might 
gain her signature acknowledging full satisfaction with his 
proceedings before any sharper eyes than hers could look into 
the business and so a contrary advice be given. 

It was to accomplish this purpose that Mr. Robinson had 



376 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

planned an interview for the day succeeding that on whioh 
Arthur's letter had been received. That morning Margaret 
was better. The first paroxysm of disappointment had 
passed. AdMe's words of gentle wisdom had made her 
almost ashamed of her own impatience. Better than all, 
perhaps, it was a fine, clear October day. The sun was 
shining ; the bare trees, waving gracefully in the breeze, 
wrote their delicate tracery against the clear blue sky the 
sea had fallen to partial rest. Margaret's excitement had 
exhausted her. She slept late. When she awoke the sun 
was high in the heavens. Ad^le had long left her side, but 
before she could look round inquiringly the young girl had 
opened the door gently and was. creeping in to see if her 
friend Avere awake. 

"Come in, Adele," said Margaret. "Why, it must be 
late. How is it that you allowed me to sleep so long ?" 

" I knew it would do you good, and I Avas right ; you look 
better already. Now, what do you intend to do? Mr. 
Robinson, you know, is to be here. Do you feel able to see 
him, or shall I do it for you ?" 

" No, no, Adele. You are spoiling me. I must exert 
myself." 

But in spite of her brave words Margaret felt very weak. 
It was only with old Martha's assistance that she could 
manage to make herself at all presentable. 

The old woman shook her head once or twice as the task 
of dressing proceeded. " It was pitiable," as she afterward 
remarked to Jane, "to see a body fallen away like that. 
Bless the poor soul!" she continued, wiping her eyes, "if 
they don't find and bring back her folks pretty soon, it's pre- 
cious little of her'll be left, what with fretting and one thing 
and another." 

In these days Margaret would always be dressed with care. 
She had a kind of feeling that her husband might returA 
suddenly, and she wished him to see her at her best, Sne 
had left ofi* the black which she had worn during her widow- 
hood, and had returned to the pretty morning-dresses, thd 
soft flowing draperies that in the old days Maurice had 
loved. 

On this morning Ad^le thought she had never seen her 



THE LAWYER GAINS HIS POINT. 377 

friend look so fair. Her dress was of gray cashmere. Il 
fitted closely to her slight form and flowed round her in 
ample folds. Her hair, gathered up at the back into thick 
coils, rippled off in waves of shimmering gold from her brow, 
so that the pure outlines of her face were clearly marked. 
It was held back by a broad band of blue ribbon, over which 
fell lappets of choice lace. Her face seemed perfectly trans- 
parent, it was so delicately fair ; and the absence of color, 
the brightness fever had given to her eyes, the general fra- 
gility of her appearance, made her look many years younger 
than she really was. 

When the tedious business of dressing was over she went 
into the little sitting-room, and standing with her hands 
resting on the back of a chair for support, looked earnestly 
into the mirror that hung over the fireplace. 

" Adele," she said, " I am changed. There are lines in my 
face, there are dark shadows under my eyes. I am a poor, 
pale, colorless thing. If he were to come back now, what 
would he say ?" 

"That you are more beautiful than ever," replied the 
young girl impulsively, looking at her friend with the 
enthusiastic admiration that belonged to her susceptible 
nature and her eighteen years. "Margaret, how can you 
say such things ?" 

But Margaret did not answer. She still looked medita- 
tively at the mirror : " if he cannot love me, if he have not 
loved me for these long years, I would almost rather he did 
not come at all. It would be dreadful to meet his indiffer- 
ence. Adele, duty might bring him." 

"And if it did, Margaret, something else would keep 
him." 

"But it is such a long time! He may have forgotten. 
He may have — " " formed other ties," she was about to add, 
but she cheeked herself suddenly. "I am talking nonsense," 
she said hastily, " I must find something to do." 

She got her work. It was a child's frock, of the same 
delicate material and color as that she wore. 

" Maurice's favorite color," she said. " I want to have i*' 
ready for Laura when she comes back. It will go well with 
her golden curls, and she wants something new. Dear little 



Jr78 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

one! I wonder has she forgotten me? I scarcely think 
so." 

AJ^le walked to the window to hide her tears. In the 
vague uncertainty, in the view of possible disappointment, 
there was something more pathetic in this mood of Marga- 
ret's than in that of the preceding night. She was just in 
time to meet Mr. Robinson's cold eyes. He had found Jhe 
garden-gate open, and was walking up the narrow grass- 
bordered path. 

One of the windows of the parlor where they were sitting 
opened on to the garden; the lawyer bowed politely when 
he saw the young lady, and with his usual obtuseness cut 
short the ceremony of ringing and gaining admittance in the 
usual way, by crossing the greensward and tapping in his 
peculiarly lively manner at the window. 

Ad^le turned round suddenly to prepare her friend for 
this summary entrance and to recover her own inclination 
for tears. Margaret's face reassured her. For the first time 
since Arthur had gone and the fever of hope-deferred had 
taken possession of her, Margaret looked really happy ; her 
fingers, almost transparent, were flying backward and for- 
ward with the busy needle ; she was looking down upon her 
work, which began to assume the appearance of a child's 
frock, with a smile. In her whole attitude there was rest. 

The woman's work had taken its effect upon her mind. 
To be working for her lost darling made her recovery and 
return seem real and near to her. It brought back the quiet 
days when the child had been her one comfort and joy. 

" Mr. Robinson is here," said Ad^le, crossing the room. 
Margaret looked up, and met a frank smile from the outside 
of the still closed window. She rose, threw up the sash, and 
the lawyer entered, hat in hand. 

" Good-morning, ladies," he said cordially. " I was begin- 
ning to fear, from the stern appearance of our young friend 
here, that I was to be left out in the cold. Ha ! ha ! not a 
pleasant position on a frosty day. Mrs. Grey, you look thin ; 
not fretting, I hope, though indeed I can scarcely wonder. 
The absurd way in which your affairs are being conducted is 
really enough to worry you." 

At this point Ad^le looked indignant and Margaret tried 



THE LAWYER GAINS HIS POINT. 379 

to protest. But the lawyer waved his hand : " One moment, 
Mrs. Grey ; I wish to make no reflections. As I stated be- 
fore, in my interview with Mr. Forrest (he took up no less 
than two hours of my time on a very busy day ; this is the 
sole grudge I bear him) :" the lawyer showed his teeth — " as 
I stated before, Mrs. Grey, I wash my hands altogether of 
this part of the business. I did my best ; my poor services 
were rejected wholesale, I may say. As a Christian I for- 
give ; yes indeed, what I have come to tell you of my after- 
conduct will prove that I bear no malice. But it hit me 
hard — hit me hard." 

He touched the region of the body where the centre of 
feeling is always supposed to reside, and looked sentimental. 

" Pray sit down, Mr. Robinson. I am sorry your feelings 
were hurt in any way," said Margaret with gentle dignity ; 
" and I know quite well that my kind friend, Mr. Forrest, is 
apt to be a little impulsive. Let me assure you that I am 
Dot ungrateful for the various services you have rendered 
me." Poor Margaret! she was thinking, with a kind of 
compunction, about that interview in London and the sun- 
dry advances for maintenance which had been a great boon 
to her at the time. " His heart is kind," she said to herself; 
" we may have judged him harshly." Then to him : " I must 
honestly confess that I was inclined to blame you for luke- 
warmness in the last matter I confided to you : I mean the 
search for my husband and child." 

" Lukewarmness, Mrs. Grey!" Mr. Robinson lifted his 
hands in a kind of holy horror ; and surely it was a super- 
abundance of honesty that shone out from his eyes. " You 
really astonish me. In fact I am at a loss to understand you 
at all. Let me pass the facts of the case in review" — his 
voice grew stern — " perhaps then the blame will rest upon the 
right shoulders. If I remember rightly — Be so good as to 
correct any misstatements ; I like to be accurate, but natu- 
rally my mind is so full of other matters. Well, as I was say- 
ing, you consulted me — in this very room, I think. I prom- 
ised to do my best, letting you know results. Thereupon you 
placed in my care certain trinkets. I took them simply be- 
cause I thought them safer in my strong box than here with 
you in this lonely place. As to making any use of them, 



380 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

why, Mrs. Grey, facts prove the contrary. Mr. Forrest had 
only to demand them ou your part. Without hesitation I 
restored them intact. To proceed : as soon as I return (re- 
member, I have not the faintest clue), I consult a detective, 
put him, as far as possible, on the track, and, further, demand 
an interview with Mr. Grey's solicitor — perfectly unsatisfac- 
tory, professes to know nothing. I take various other mea- 
sures —needless to enter into detail. The principles of what 
one may call the private-inquiry business are not easy to ex- 
plain, especially to ladies. I think I obtain a clue, but is it 
for me to torture you with half revelations? I wait for a 
little more certainty, and in the interval in dashes Mr. For- 
rest, states that you have given over these matters into hia 
hands, that your confidence is shaken, that affairs would be 
strictly looked into." 

Here Mr. Robiuson made a dramatic pause and looked 
sternly at his repentant client. " Mrs. Grey," he continued, 
" do you know what was my impulse at that moment ? Your 
affairs, as you are well aware, are — or I should say were — in 
a complicated condition. I felt inclined to take no more 
trouble, to let your new friends have the burden and responsi- 
bility ; but" — he lifted his eyes sanctimoniously to the ceiling 
— " I do nothing upon impulse. Further consideration showed 
me that to act in so hasty a manner would be unworthy of 
myself, inconsistent with my character as a Christian man. I 
wish to ' adorn my profession in all things.' Whether in this 
I am successful or no is not for me to say." 

Through all her penitence Margaret was growing impatient 
of this long harangue, and AdSle's face showed that she, at 
least, would not hear it much longer. 

Mrs. Grey broke the little interlude short : " And pray, 
Mr. Robinson, what did you do ?" 

" Set to work immediately to disentangle your affairs. But, 
mind you, a man may go to a ceHain length ; self-respect for- 
bids him to go further. What I said to myself was this : I 
am distrusted, I must resign my position." 

Margaret was about to interrupt him. 

" Allow me. Before you answer, I must give my reasons, 
both from my side of the question and from yours, for the 
advisability of the step which I may say is irrevocably deter* 



THE LAWYER GAINS HIS POINT. o6l 

mined in my own mind. We shall take the reasons from 
your point of view first. Mr. Forrest has your full confi- 
dence. You acknowledge so far as this ?" Margaret bowed. 
"You took measures with him totally unknown to me — a 
breach of confidence — but this I should have been content to 
waive. Ladies are naturally impulsive. To proceed with out 
reasons. Mr. Forrest distrusts and dislikes me — impossible to 
say why. He is a worldling. It may be that a few words of 
waniing and exhortation which I felt it my bounden duty to 
give him on thj occasion of our last meeting have something 
to do with it. It is a matter of small import, except in so far 
as it concerns you. Mr. Forrest has inspired you with dis- 
trust ; he will do so further ; possibly your husband also, for 
I hear he has succeeded in finding out something through 
Mr. Edwards. But of this you doubtless know more than I. 
Under such circumstances it will be far wiser for you to allow 
me at once to give up the management of your afiairs. My 
reasons for desiring it are many of them personal. I will not 
enter into them, as I fear I have tired you already. If you 
like I can proceed to open out my accounts and give a rapid 
sketch of my proceedings, that you may sign this document 
with your eyes open. Your friend looks dissatisfied ; I know 
ladies often object to signing. Let me reassure her : this is 
nothing but a deed of release, to pave the way for transfer 
papers which are now being prepared." 

" You are quite right to withdraw, Mr. Robinson," replied 
Margaret with dignity, " if you feel as you do, but in the 
mean time, until my husband's return — " 

The lawyer looked at her curiously. Then he was only just 
in time. Certain news had arrived. 

Margaret's ftice expressed nothing. " — Who," she con- 
tinued, " will manage my affairs ?" 
," It is on this very matter that I desired to consult you." 
'= Would it not be better to wait?" 

"For the actual conclusion of the business? — yes, if you 
see fit. We could even have the papers ready, leaving the 
names a blank, until such time as you can consult your 
friends. Still, I must beg you to conclude the business that 
has brought me here to-day. I am anxious, without delay, to 
pay into your account at the bank the sum which has been 



382 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

matter of question between us — deducting from it, of course, 
as was previously arranged, the few trivial sums forwarded, 
the expenses of search and the inevitable legal charges. Of 
these I have brought you a full account, and shall be much 
obliged by your looking over it." 

Margaret sighed : " I make no doubt it is all as it should 
be, Mr. Robinson." 

She opened it listlessly, and the long rows of figutes swam 
before her eyes. 

" I should not have ventured to bring it had it not been so, 
Mrs. Grey. Still, it would be satisfactory. You will observe 
that I have myself paid up the sum so unfortunately invested. 
It may be I shall be reimbursed out of the debtor's property 
— it may be not ; this I am content to leave. You will also 
observe that out of the capital sum I have deducted the total 
of this account. All is clearly stated in this document, which 
I am anxious for you to sign." 

Ad^le, while the lawyer was stating his views, had been 
listening and observing. At the moment when he brought 
his last harangue to a climax, Margaret was sitting at her 
writing-table. The account lay open at her side. The deed 
of release, fairly copied on parchment, was under her hand. 
She felt too utterly indifferent to all these business-matters to 
be able to question anything that was told her. All she desired 
was the cessation of this wearisome importunity. She dipped 
her pen in the ink. Ad^le saw how it was with her. Her 
younger, stronger spirit recoiled from the oppression. She 
leaned forward suddenly and drew the pen from her friend's 
hand: 

" Margaret, take my advice — sign nothing." 

Margaret smiled, and then she sighed wearily. In this 
matter she would have preferred taking her own way, but she 
gave in. 

" Impulsive child !" she said, a slight tone of irritation in 
hei voice; then, turning to the lawyer, "Perhaps, Mr. Robin- 
son, even for form's sake it will be wiser for me to try and make 
out what all this means. But for the moment I feel slightly 
bewildered. You must allow me to think over it. You are 
staying at the hotel, I suppose? If you will give us th? plea 



TEE LAWYEE GAINS HIS POINT. 383 

isure of your company to lunch we can further discuss this in 
the afternoon." 

The lawyer rose. Margaret's invitation was a dismissal. 
He was obliged to submit to the delay, although it was a mat- 
ter of great importance to him that the business which had 
brought him to Middlethorpe should be settled at once ; but 
Addle's sharp eyes, rendered far-seeing by love and anxiety, 
were watching him narrowly, and he would show no sign of 
anxiety. " Take your own time, my dear Mrs. Grey," he re- 
plied benignantly. "You must have seen and understood all 
along that my special object in my business dealings with la- 
dies is to persuade them to do everything intelligently — com- 
prehending, that is to say, the why and the wherefore of the 
step they are advised to take. I find some too ready. They 
throw themselves entirely on their lawyer's superior know- 
ledge, increasing, of course, our responsibility, and this I de- 
precate. Others" — he looked across at Margaret with his 
charming smile — "are inclined to be too timorous. They 
take fright at the sight of parchment, and when asked to sign 
imagine they are being defrauded of some right. Your po- 
sition, Mrs. Grey, is the wisest — indeed I may say the most 
satisfactory to one's self, for when, by repeated explanations, 
I have made all this perfectly clear to your mind, my position 
will be the more tenable. Then if in the future subject of 
discussion should arise — which, understand me, I do not ap- 
prehend — I shall be able to call upon you and our young 
friend here as witnesses to the truth of what I assert — namely, 
that you did everything with your eyes open." 

The lawyer bowed himself out of the room. This time he 
had struck the right chord. To Margaret, in her state of be- 
wilderment, the " repeated explanations " sounded like a kind 
of threat. Her thoughts and hopes were all engrossed, given 
to the one absorbing subject, and this forced attention to for- 
eign matters was very irksome. 

"If Maurice come back," she said to herself, "he will man- 
age everything for me. If not" — and at the bare supposition 
all her life and energy seemed to pass, leaving her cold and 
spiritless — " if not, what does anything matter ?" 

She turned to the table. Mr. Robinson, it should be ob- 
served, had pocketed the papers. He had not thought it well, 



384 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

probably, that the ladies should examine them without the 
commentary of his instructive explanations. Mr. Robinson 
professed to think little of the female intellect, probably be- 
cause, as a general rule, he found ladies gullible. 

Not finding the papers, Margaret arose and walked to the 
window. 

" Adele, my dear," she said after a few moments' pause, " I 
nmut sign this." In her voice were the querulous tones of 
weakness. " That man's explanations will send me wild. Can 
you give me any solid reason for objecting ?" 

" Only, that he has no right, in the present state of afiaii*s, 
to ask you to sign anything. It all sounds plausible enough, 
but I think that if the man were really honest he would wait 
for this * winding up,' as he calls it, until your husband's re- 
turn." 

"You see he wishes to pay over this sum, whatever it may 
be, at once," returned Margaret. She was inclined to take 
the lawyer's part. " I really think the man is honest, and 
certainly until just lately he has been a very kind friend to 
me — a friend in need." 

" But why does he come in this sneaking way," persisted the 
young girl, " to make you write that you are satisfied with him ? 
I may be wrong, but it seems to me that he only wants to stop 
your mouth and prevent accounts from being looked into by 
your friends." 

" My dear child, are you not a little unjust ? Confess, now, 
that Arthur prejudiced you. Mr. Robinson's vulgarity is, I 
know, quite enough to account for your cousin's dislike, and 
some of the things he did had a bad appearance ; still, that 
need not make us all put him down as dishonest." 

" But, Margaret, what can be his motive ?" 

"How can I tell?" Again Margaret's voice sounded 
querulous. She said nothing more for some time, and A d^le 
forbore to press the subject ; she feared that already she had 
gone too far. It was Margaret who opened it again, for her 
mind had been working. "Allowing," she said, almost 
apologetically, " that this signature is unnecessary I think I 
may as well oblige Mr. Robinson, if only in acknowledg- 
ment of his former kindness." 

" Kindness !" The young girl shrugged her shoulders ever 



THE LAWYER GAINS HIS POINT. 385 

so sli^j'htly, but all further discussion was stopped by the re- 
turn of Mr. Robinson and the appearance of lunch. During 
the meal the lawyer made himself, as he thought, perfectly 
charming, but after it was over he returned to the attack. 

Margaret, as it will be seen, was predisposed in favor of 
what he desired ; Ad^le had done her best to prevent it, but in 
Tain. The wily man gained his point. Margaret signed the 
cleed with full knowledge of its contents. Mr. Robinson was 
protected, and his mind was once more at rest. 

It was thus with him always. His escapes were wonderful. 
As at this point his connection with Margaret's history ended 
altogether, for that cooked-up account and the transactions 
which led to its concoction continued to be a sealed book, it 
may be as well, perhaps, to let him once for all disappear from 
our pages. He is practicing still, and it is more than prob- 
able that the Robinson name, on whose lustre he prides him- 
self, has never been dimmed by action of his, although among 
solicitors of a higher class he has the name of being a sharp 
practitioner. He may be known by his frank address, his 
manly appearance, his deep and outspoken conviction of the 
necessity of not living for this world alone. He has been an 
actor in the play so long that at last he has almost come to 
believe he is what he makes so loud a profession of being. 

Let him go on his way rejoicing. If other and more really 
honest people understood, as he does, the grand art of taking 
care of themselves, there would be less misery in the world. 
It may be, however, that it would be a doubtful advantage. 

The poetry of chivalry and romance has died out in a great 
measure from our "Merrie Land," but woe worth the day when 
selfishness becomes the rule, and what Mr. Robinson would 
tf-rm "stupid Quixoterie" the exception! 
25 



386 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 



CHAPTER III. 

THREATENED SEPARATION. 

The rainbow dies in heaven, and not on earth ; 
But love can never die : from world to world, 
Up the high wheel of heaven, it lives for aye. 

Adele was in despair. By that evening's post a letter had 
arrived from her mother. Mrs. Churchill was on her way to 
Scarborough, and her niece was travelling with her. They 
were sleeping at York that night. On the following day they 
would call for AdMe at Middlethorpe, and take her on with 
them. Again and again the date of her return to her 
mother's care had been deferred, in obedience to her wishes 
repeatedly and earnestly expressed. 

Mrs. Churchill, always indulgent to what she looked upon 
as Ad^le's whims, had in consequence spent the month of 
September in Brighton, but her forbearance would extend no 
further. It was high time, she thought, that her daughter's 
absurd seclusion should come to an end. Her letter waa 
written in a very decided manner. She wished to leave no 
loophole for excuse or further delay. 

It seemed to Adele that the announcement had come just 
at the wrong time. In the long, heart-sickening anxiety of 
suspense, Margaret's strength was failing, and the young girl 
knew she was her chief comfort and help. She trembled to 
think how the much-tried endurance of her friend might fail 
if ane were thrown suddenly on her own resources. 

And Margaret had been given into her care by Arthur. 
The patient fulfilling of her task was a pledge of her love. 
It was not a hard task, for Adele's affection, which had par- 
taken of the fervid nature of passion in the admiration of 
her young heart for Margaret's beauty, in the pity which had 
arisen on that first day of their meeting at the sight of her 
distress, had taken perhaps a calmer tone during these weeks 
of close intimacy, but withal a much deeper and firmer root. 
. Ad^le loved her friend so truly that she would willingly 
have sacrificed any happiness of her own for her good, and the 
idea of leaving her, of returning to the old rounds of tedious 



THREATENED SEPARATION. 387 

gaydty, of knowing that in her absence the strong, brave 
heart was failing, the weakened spirit was giving way, even 
when the end might be very near, made her heart ache and 
throb. 

She would not tell Margaret that night, for the business 
and discussion of the day had wearied her, but there was an 
almost unusual tenderness in her manner, which Margaret 
attributed to her fear of having unduly urged the non-signa- 
ture of Mr. Kobinson's papers. 

Old Martha was ready at her post to help Margaret to bed. 
Addle sent her away peremptorily. " No one shall touch you 
to-night but me," she said, stooping over the arm-chair in 
which Margaret was sitting, and loosening her hair with gen- 
tle fingers ; then, as Margaret smilingly protested, " Just for 
this once," she pleaded ; and her friend did not see, for the 
long, blinding tresses, that slow tears were falling one by one 
from the young girl's eyes. 

There was exceeding comfort in the passing to and fro of 
those busy fingers, for their every touch spoke eloquently of 
love. This it was that Margaret felt. Once she caught one 
of the busy hands and pressed it to her lips. 

" What should I do without you. Addle ?" she said softly. 
" Little one, I begin to fear I am loving you too much. My 
loves are unfortunate. It is the old story of the fair gazelle. 
Scold me well ; I deserve it for my sentimental folly ; still, 
the feeling is here — I can't get rid of it." 

Adele had to choke back her tears before she could answer 
When she did her voice was slightly husky : " I don't think 
loves can ever be unfortunate — quite altogether, I mean — for 
you know to lose for a time is not to lose for always, and 
where there is love, real true love, there must be lasting." 
She paused for a moment, as if in earnest struggle to express 
herself worthily, and then her voice grew more earnest and 
her eyes seemed to deepen: "It is charity — love — that 
abideth — the only earthly feeling we can never do without." 
She had finished brushing and combing Margaret's long 
hair; c;he was sitting on a stool at her feet gazing into the fire. 
" Adele," said Margaret, " you are wiser than I, or perhapd 
there's something altogether wrong about me. I cannot take 
the comfort you do out of these generalities. Child, child,' 



y 



388 CHASTE A3 ICE, PUJRE AS SNOW. 

her voice grew intensely earnest, "it is not this beautiful 
something, this ' charity which abideth,' that I want ; it is my 
personal loves — my husband, my child." 

The young girl looked up into her eyes ; she answered with 
the calm assurance of faith : " Margaret, be calm : you shall 
have them. But do you know I never look upon all these 
things as generalities ; if love is to last, our personal loves are 
to last too." She sighed " I know I express myself badly. 
I wish I could make you understand what I mean." 

" I think I do understand," said Margaret thoughtfully. 
" Addle," she said after a pause, during which perhaps almost 
the very same thought had been passing through their minds, 
" our love, yours and mine and your cousin's, the strange 
tangle which your straightforwardness and self-forgetfulness 
unravelled, is certainly of the lasting kind. The future may 
throw us widely apart, but I think that neither here nor here- 
after can it ever be the same as if we had not loved." 

This time Addle did not answer, because she could not. 
The shadow of that dreadful separation was on her spirit. 
After a few moments' silence she said lightly that Margaret 
had talked quite enough — that it was time for her to rest ; 
which dictum Margaret obeyed with great willingness. 

The next day was that fixed upon by Mrs. Churchill for 
her visit. Adele could no longer delay letting Margaret 
know that a summons from her mother had come ; but the 
morning is generally more favorable to hopefulness than the 
evening. Adele had begun to think matters were not so des- 
perate as they looked. Possibly she might obtain further re- 
spite. She took in the unwelcome letter with Margaret's 
breakfast-tray, which had been delicately arranged by her 
own hands. 

" Addle, you must go," was Margaret's comment on the 
letter. And she tried not to show how sorely she would miss 
her comforter. 

Addle was slightly wounded: "Do you really mean it, 
Margaret ?" 

" I do indeed, dear. Your mother is quite right ; you have 
sacrificed yourself too long." 

" And you can think I have been sacrificing myself !" said 
the young girl. " But no, you only mean to tease me." 



THREATENED SEPARATION. 389 

liiere was something of the disquieting jealousy of that 
leeling which is always supposed to be more engrossing than 
mere friendship in her further words : '' Perhaps you would 
not even miss me, Margaret?'' 

But the tears Margaret could not restrain, the sudden wea* 
riness in her pale face, spoke more eloquently than words. 
Adele threw herself down on her knees by her friend's side : 
" Forgive me, darling, but if you only knew — " 

" — All the tenderness of this warm young heart," and 
Margaret smiled faintly, resting her hand, as if in silent 
blessing, on the bowed head. 

" But look, dear," she continued after a pause, " your 
mother is coming, and I am anxious to see her, so she must 
not find me in bed. Will you help me to dress this 
morning ?" 

Addle rose and brushed away her tears. " How stupid I 
am !" she cried, " and really I didn't intend to be so silly to- 
day, for, Margaret, I was just thinking — Mamma is so 
good and kind, she generally lets me do as I like ; then, you 
see, she has never met you. I mean to dress you as you were 
dressed yesterday, and I want you to put forth all your fasci- 
nations. The result will be that mamma won't have the heart 
to carry me off," 
" But, Addle—" 

" But, Margaret. Put yourself in my hands, madam. Re- 
member I am responsible for your safe-keeping to somebody 
— my somebody, not yours, Margaret. By the bye, I will 
urge Arthur's wishes. Mamma never likes to offend him." 

And so Adele rattled on to hide her true, deep feelings, 
while once more she ministered tenderly to the friend she 
loved. 

Mrs. Churchill, impatient as the time drew nearer to see 
her daughter again, had left York by an early train, and Mar- 
garet and Addle had not been long seated over their work in 
the little parlor before a travelling carriage, heavily laden 
with luggage, drove up to the door. She had brought her 
carriage and horses so far by raii, her intention being tf 
post for the remainder of the way. 

It was long since Margaret had met any stranger, and si i 
felt a little nervous when the rattle of wheels came to hef 



390 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

ears ; but as from her station by the parlor-window she caught 
a sight of Mrs. Churchill's pleasant, kindly face, some of her 
painful anticipations fled. 

Ad^le had run down the garden-path. She brought her 
mother in to introduce her to her friend. 

The good Mrs. Churchill had been rather curious to see 
Margaret. Ad^le's enthusiasm and Arthur's boyish admira- 
tion had made her look for something remarkable, but she 
was scarcely prepared for the refinement, the style, the ex- 
quisite grace of her daughter's friend. It was a rare com- 
bination, even in those circles in which the rich and highly- 
connected widow moved. 

Mrs. Churchill knew enough of the world to be quite sure 
at once that she was in the house of a lady — not only highly 
born and bred, but accustomed to the usages of society. Her 
good sense and kindly feeling led her to treat her hostess 
with all due deference. 

" I have long wished to have the pleasure of making your 
acquaintance, Mrs. Grey," she said when Margaret had per- 
suaded her to divest herself of bonnet and shawl, " I have 
heard so much about you from these enthusiastic children of 
mine. I call them my children, because Arthur has been 
almost like my own son, and I presume you are in the con- 
fidence of this little girl, and that she has let out her secret." 
Mrs. Churchill looked at Margaret rather curiously. 

"Yes," replied Mrs. Grey quietly, drawing down Ad^lC; 
who had been hovering about her nervously, to a seat by her 
side. "I heard long ago, both from your daughter and 
nephew, of this engagement; and much as I admire Mr. 
Forrest, I cannot but think, knowing youi daughter as I do, 
that he is a very fortunate man." 

Ad^le blushed : "Margaret, be quiet; you shouldn't say such 
things." But her smile belied her words ; it was so radianf 
that it transfigured her face. 

Her mother turned to her: "Ad^le, my dear, do you know 
that you ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grey for her 
long hospitality? Now I look at yen I am surprised; I 
never saw such a change. When you left London you were 
colorless and sickly." 



THREATENED SEPARATION. 391 

« Mamma, mamma I" protested AdMe, " how very unin- 
teresting !" 

But Mrs Churchill persisted: "Yes, my dear, I speak the 
bare tr^th ; now your animation has come back, you have 
gained flesh and color, you are absolutely a difierent being. 
Mrs. Grey, what have you been doing with her ?" 

Margaret smiled : " I am so glad you think her looking 
well, and that her visit here has done her good, for I was 
beginning to think myself selfish for keeping her so long in 
this lonely place. I suppose the fresh sea-air has worked the 
miracle." 

" The cure is not quite accomplished, mamma," said AdSle 
coaxingly ; but Margaret interrupted her : 

"We can talk about that presently, dear; just now your 
•jiother wants rest and refreshment. Would you mind hur- 
rying Jane on with lunch for me ?" 

She turned to Mrs. Churchill: "Our establishment is 
small, and I have been delicate lately, so your daughter 
kindly helps me in many little ways." 

" Small indeed !" thought Mrs. Churchill, but she would 
not have said so for the world. She was far too much of the 
real lady to be able to take upon herself any fine-lady airs 
of superiority, and then she began to interest herself strangely 
in her daughter's friend. Mrs. Churchill would have been 
very much displeased could she have heard herself called 
impulsive ; indeed, it was only in a certain way that she was 
Bo. Her impulses were generally inspired by some tolerably 
solid reasons. In this case her keen eye had instantly de- 
tected the lady, also the absence of all those qualities which 
go to make up the intriguante. This set her at ease at once, 
while the gentleness, the evident weakness, the traces of pro- 
found suffering, moved her kind heart as it had not been 
moved for long. She had not been in the cottage half an 
hour before, with true motherliness of intent, she made up 
her mind to take Mrs. Grey in hand. 

" I am glad to hear Adele has been of any service to you," 
was her answer to Margaret, cordially spoken, and then she 
looked at Mrs. Grey as she had looked at her daughter. "I 
am sorry to hear of this delicacy, Mrs. Grey ; you certainly 
look far from well, but I think so lonely a place as thia 



392 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

would t ill me in a few months. Why not try a change- -» 
little gayety, for instance ? Now, if you would allow me to 
return your hospitality to my daughter by taking you with 
us to Scarborough, I really think you would fiud the change 
would do you good. Then a little cod-liver-oil, quinine and 
port-wine, steel — But perhaps you are taking some :f 
these?" 

Margaret smiled : " Thank you very much for your kind 
interest in my health. No, I take none of these things, and 
I scarcely think they could do me good. As to a change, 
you are very good to propose it ; I fear at present I could 
enjoy nothing. I could not enter into general society; I 
should only be a burden on your hands." 

Mrs. Churchill looked across at Margaret's pale face and 
warmed into sympathy and interest : " But this is a dreadful 
state of things, Mrs. Grey. Nothing so insidious, I can assure 
you, as the creeping on of general ill-health ; you ought to 
do something. Have you consulted a doctor ?" 

" A doctor could do me no good. My dear Mrs. Churchill, 
pray don't distress yourself on my account; I think you 
know enough of my history to understand me when I say that 
my illness is far more mental than physical. These weeks, 
which are bringing me hope, have been almost more trying 
to me than the years that went before." 

"And how long is this state of thing to be supposed to 
last ?" cried the impulsive and warm-hearted lady. " Now, 
Mrs. Grey, will you take my advice ? I am many years older 
than you — old enough, I imagine, to be your mother. You 
look incredulous. Well, have it your own way. They say I 
bear my years well, and I believe that in this case the on dits 
are more correct than usual. You will allow, at least, that I 
have larger experience of the world than you. Shall I give 
you my secret — the true elixir of life, my dear ? Never al- 
low yourself to feel too deeply. Feelings have been the ruin 
of some of the finest constitutions." 

" But what if they cannot be helped ?" said Margaret, who 
was smiling through a half inclination to tears. 

" My dear (child I was about to say, but I don't wish to 
offend you), an effort should be made, for what does all the 
crying over spilt milk mean ?" This was a favorite theme with 



THREATENED SEPARATION. 393 

Mrs. Churchill. "Why, as I have told Adele a thousand 
times, to fret one's self into a premature death because things 
don't go altogether as one could wish is clearly nothing more 
nor less than flying in the face of Providence ; for how did 
we get our health and strength, and all the rest of it ? and if 
we acknowledge that these are gifts of Providence, ought we 
to trifle with them ? Come now, Mrs. Grey, what have you 
to- say ?" Her voice softened as she looked at the pale face 
and fragile form. "You must excuse me, my dear. You see 
I am given to speaking my mind, and I am interested in you ; 
so it comes naturally somehow to speak to you as I might to 
this wilful little girl of mine." For Adele had come in during 
the latter part of Mrs. Churchill's harangue. She was listen- 
ing with real pleasure to the energetic words, for she knew 
her mother well enough to be aware that she never took the 
trouble of lecturing in this manner any one who had not first 
made great way in her afiections. 

" This is mamma's pet subject, Margaret," she said ; " what 
have you to say ? I always find her arguments unanswerable, 
but then they never converted me." 

Margaret smiled : " I have to say, AdMe, that your mother 
is perfectly right, that I deserve every word of her lecture, 
and that I intend to make an effort in the way of getting 
rid of these tiresome feelings and becoming strong again." 

" Only if you have me to help you, Margaret," pleaded 
Ad^le. 

But Margaret shook her head : " No, no ; I have no right 
to keep you longer from your mother." 

Ad^le turned pleadingly to Mrs. Churchill: "Mamma, 
mamma, leave me here a little longer." 

"Your 'littles' are elastic, Ad^le. For how many weeks 
have you been saying this?" 

"And I suppose I shall say the same" — the young girl 
looked up saucily at her mother, blushing ever so slightly — 
" until Arthur comes back, mamma. He wishes me to stay 
and take care of Margaret." 

Mrs. Churchill was in a very good humor ; she laughed 
outright : " You are certainly a pretty pair, and very well 
adapted to the task of taking care of yourselves. When that 
event, which you are always thrusting in my face, really 



394 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

happeus, I shall have to engage an elderly female of strong 
common sense to look after you both and keep you in order — 
a pair of babies !" 

" But, mamma, you haven't answered me." 

" Mrs. Grey says nothing, Ad^le ; perhaps she is tired oi 
you, or perhaps — which to my mind would be the best of all 
— you could persuade her to change her mind and become our 
guest at Scarborough." 

Adele's eyes glistened. Certainly her mother must have 
taken a strong as well as sudden fancy to her friend : " Oh, 
mamma, you have asked Margaret to stay with us? How 
good of you !" 

Mrs. Churchill turned to her hostess in mock despair : " I 
believe this foolish child thinks I had nothing but her fancies 
in view. You must excuse her, Mrs. Grey; the excitement 
seems to have put her slightly off her head. Let me assure 
you once more that, purely for your own sake, I shall be most 
delighted if you will become our guest until your future is a 
little more decided." 

Margaret put out her hand; she was touched by Mrs. 
Churchill's delicate kindness. "Thank you a thousand 
times," she said gently ; " if I were even in a fit state for 
travelling I should not hesitate to take advantage of your 
kind offer, so attractive in every way. But Adele will tell 
you how it is with me at times ; I cannot even dress myself. 
No ; I must say good-bye to Ad^le, with many thanks both 
to her and to you, and return to my lonely life. I hope it 
may soon be over." 

" What may soon be over ?" Mrs. Churchill turned round 
sharply, for there was a sad ring in the voice, which Margaret 
had striven to render absolutely calm. She met Mrs. Grey's 
quiet smile. " I see you mean that you believe your husband 
will soon return, but I do wish people would say what they 
mean." There was something of fretfulness in Mrs. Church 
ill's voice ; she did not like to be puzzled, and her daughter's 
friend was puzzling her. 

"I really think," she continued meditatively, "that my 
best plan would be to put up here at the hotel for a few days. 
By the bye, Ad^le, I left Mary there ; I would not bring her 
on here until I knew more certainly about your arrangements 



THREATENED SEPARATION. 396 

Ves, 1 think that will do. You and she could amuse your 
selves together, and I should like very much to try the effect 
of quinine and port wine on Mrs. Grey. I brought a hamper 
of our own wine with me — exceedingly fortunate, as it turns 
out." 

Margaret was weak. Do what she would she could not 
prevent the tears from filling her eyes. " You are too good 
to me," she said ; " how shall I thank you ?" 

" By trying to get strong, my dear, and remembering first 
of all (you see you begin by breaking my rules) to take things 
quietly is the best policy. Now, Ad^le, put on your hat and 
drive to the hotel. Make them unload the carriage and bring , 
Mary back in it. Are we trespassing too much, Mrs. Grey ? 
You young people will have plenty to talk about, so you need 
not hurry back. Mrs. Grey in the mean time must give me 
some account of her symptoms. It may be that the worldly 
wisdom of a worldly old woman will do as much to help her 
as the romantic enthusiasm of the young folk who in the pre- 
sent day rule the roast." 

Adele obeyed her mother to the letter. She left her and 
Margaret alone together for a good hour. She returned to 
find them fast friends. The cheerful optimism of the elder 
lady had strengthened the younger considerably, for Margaret 
wanted bracing, and Mrs. Churchill's sound common-sense 
was like a blast of north wind : it swept away sundry vapors, 
it invigorated the heart that a succession of evils had rendered 
distrustful of good. And Margaret's pathetic story, her truth, 
her goodness, her life of devotion — for all these had, insensibly 
to herself, shone out in her simple narrative — filled her hearer 
with admiration, elevated her conception of human nature, 
made her believe (a humanizing belief to many natures), in 
looking back upon her own mistrust, that her judgment was 
not always infallible. 

For a whole week — and it was a real act of self-sacrificing 
friendship — Mrs. Churchill remained in the quiet village by 
the sea. The season was late, so she made up her mind to 
give up Scarborough and return from Middlethorpe to Lon- 
don. She dosed Margaret abundantly with quinine and port 
wine, she braced her mind by vigorous common sense, well- 
grounded cheerfulness and antipathetic banishment of any- 



396 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

thing approaching morbidness or so-called sentiment. When 
she left she had the satisfaction of seeing her patient better. 
It is almost needless to add that the kind-hearted lady had 
not the heart to deprive Margaret of her friend. Ad^le re- 
mained at the cottage till the chiU winds of early winter 
Bwept the waters, while still no certain tidings came to them 
of their wanderers. 



CHAPTER IV. 

A DREAM INTERRUPTED AND A STRANGE REVELA- 
TION MADE. 

Just as I thonght I had caught sight of heaven, 
It came to naught, as dreams of heaven on earth 
Do always. 

The Alpine mountains again — "silences of everlasting 
hills" — Nature and man face to face in the quiet, stealthy 
creeping on of night ! 

Maurice Grey sat in his little chalet alone ; no friend was 
near to catch the outflowings of his heart — no watcher, not 
even a faithful servant, to note the changes that followed one 
another over his face. The untouched meal, prepared by old 
Marie, was on the table ; he sat before his desk facing the 
little window, and looked out with sad, weary eyes. 

For more than an hour he had been thinking, reviewing the 
tale Arthur had told him, trying frantically to rend the net 
of mystery that surrounded him, but trying in vain. A letter 
was under his hand. He had read it over by the failing light, 
and then crushed it together in his strong grasp. It was an 
old, faded, yellow paper which had evidently lain for years in 
his desk, but the sting of that it contained Avas still as fresh 
as on the first day when it had been read. The letter was 
one of those anonymous productions which perhaps show up 
in more lurid light than anything else the depths of cowardly 
epite that lie hidden in the hearts of men. This particular 
one, to give it its due, was well put together and plausible. 

The writer began by acknowledging cordially the apparent 
cowardice of the step he had taken. Necessity and strong 



A DREAM mTEBBUPTED. 397 

feeling were urged as the excuse. He represented himself aa 
one who owed a debt of gratitude to Mr. Grey ; it was there- 
fore peculiarly painful to see him imposed upon. For in pur- 
port it was an accusation, cleverly drawn up, implying more 
than it revealed against Maurice Grey's wife. The history of 
stolen meetings between her and her former lover, of whose 
residence in England Mr. Gray was aware, was circumstan- 
tially given. They coincided strangely, as Maurice remem- 
bered with a pang almost as bitter as that first one had been, 
with Margaret's comings and goings ; but further, a certain 
test was offered. It was proposed that on that very evening 
the husband should profess to leave his wife, that instead of 
returning to London he should remain in Ramsgate, and that 
if, at a specified time, he should not find her and the foreigner 
together, he might throw aside all that the letter contained 
as unwoi'thy of belief. Maurice was naturally jealous. His 
wife's unusual beauty, the difficulty of winning her, the know- 
ledge that he had not been the first to possess her heart, com- 
bined to make him distrustful. Instead of showing her the 
letter or treating it with merited contempt, he was weak 
enough to fall into the snare. 

The event had been planned with a fatal accuracy. He 
found L'Estrange at Margaret's feet, and in the agony of 
wounded love, of despairing rage, left her altogether. For 
four long years he had wandered hopelessly and aimlessly, not 
daring, in case his worst fears should receive terrible confirma- 
tion, to find out anything about the woman whom through it 
all he loved so madly. And now, when, as he believed, his 
heart had grown callous, when he thought his retreat was 
surely hidden from all his former friends, this earnest cham- 
pion came forward, sent evidently by her to plead her cause, 
to assure him of her continued love and unwearied faithful- 
ness, to recall him to her side. But the mystery was unex- 
plained. All she offered was a simple declaration of the false- 
hood of that of which Maurice believed he held incontro- 
yertible proof. 

What could it all mean ? Was it, he asked himself — and 
his brows were fiercely knit — a plot to betray him ? Did she 
wish to regain her position, only that she might the more 
furely carry on her intrigues? Had her paramour wearied 



3'JS CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

her, and in his turn been cast oflT? He thought, but suddenly, 
as on the preceding evening, there came, like a gleam of light 
through his dark thoughts, the memory of that pale, pure 
face. 

The strong man bowed his head, and tears such as only 
men can weep found their way to his burning eyelids. He 
covered his face with his hands. " It is possible," he cried — 
"possible! O my God, I may have been wrong." As he 
spoke he trembled like a child, this man who knew the world, 
whose wide experience had made him a cynic. 

But if the thought held pain, it had also infinite sweetness. 
That first spasm past, Maurice gave way to it. He looked up 
again and the pale snows met his gaze. There was a soft, 
tender lip'ht in his dark eyes. Between them and those pale 
snows that fair, sad face was shining. " Margaret !" he whis- 
pered. 

The man was weary with his mental struggles, overwrought 
by the physical exertions of the day. He allowed hope in 
its soft, tremulous beauty to take possession of his soul, old 
memories to steal over his heart. He leaned back in his 
arm-chair, folded his arms over his breast and fell into a 
kind of trance. Gradually, as his senses lost their hold 
upon the visible, the snow-laden pines, the white peaks, the 
swollen torrents passed away from his gaze, till at last it 
seemed that the sternness of winter had passed away — spring, 
life, green beauty took its place. 

The four walls of his chalet fell ; he was sitting on the 
green sward, innumerable delicious odors filled the air with 
fragrance, bright-eyed flowers were about him, the birds 
twittered gayly, everywhere was life and gladness ; but in the 
midst of all was a something incongruous, like a minor chord 
in a fair melody — a sound of low, sad singing, the voice as 
of one in pain. Maurice thought he knew the voice ; turn- 
ing suddenly, he saw his wife. She was walking steadily 
forward with a gliding step ; a black robe covered her from 
head to foot ; her eyes were fixed on the distant horizon. He 
thought that he called her " Margaret !" but her eyes did not 
move, only her lips stirred as if in prayer. She glided past 
him, but before she had quite gone out of his reach he caught 
the hem of her dress. Then, while her heaven-turned fac* 



A DREAM INTERRUPTED. 399 

was slowly moving, while he was yearning to catch the gleam 
of her eyes, the vision passed, as visions will. 

The whole had only lasted a few minutes, though it 
seeme: to Maurice as if he had been long insensible. When 
reality and consciousness began slowly to assert their cold 
auperiority it was absolute pain. At first he tried to deny 
them, in the vain hope that closed eyes and utter stillness 
would bring back the fair vision ; then suddenly the vague 
uneasiness a watchful presence brings awoke him fully. 

He started up, and saw by the failing light that he was not 
alone — he was being watched. Between him and the win- 
dow a dark form was standing ; keen, searching eyes scanned 
his face ; they were those of his enemy. L'Estrange had 
found his way to the chalet. At last these two were face to 
face. 

It was a rude awakening from a pleasant dream, and the 
very contrast between the fairness of the vision and the 
blackness of that reality which to Maurice's inflamed heart 
this man personified made his hatred more intense. It took 
him but a moment to start to his feet. His first impulse was 
to seize the intruder by the throat and cast him out; his 
very presence seemed a wanton insult. But L'Estrange met 
his gaze calmly, and Maurice checked himself: "Before I 
touch him I will get to the bottom of the mystery, and if he 
have betrayed her as well as me — " 

He clenched his teeth and involuntarily smote his knotted 
fists together. For a few moments the men looked at one 
another in silence. Maurice spoke first, and his voice was 
like the growl of an angry lion : " What has brought you 
here?" 

A sneer curled the Frenchman's lips: "No love to you, 
Mr. Grey, but — listen to me patiently, or I vow I will be 
silent for ever — a late repentance for an old wrong." 

" Then — " There was a whole torrent of wrath pent up 
in the opening syllable. 

"I tell you not to speak," cried his visitor, "or what I 
have come to say shall never be told. Maurice Grey, you 
are my enemy. You married the only woman I ever loved. 
This I could have forgiven ; it was my fault, it was in the 
course of Nature; but you won her heart, the heart that 



400 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

once was mine. Yes, short-sighted Englishman, of this I 
can speak, for you knew it ; she told you, and this it was that 
filled you with proud jealousy, that made you torment your- 
self. Yet it is true your wife loved you as she never loved 
me. I did not believe it then : now I know it. You gasp : 
well you may. That was my snare, and you fell into it. I 
see the letter ; give it to me. Is it true, then, that with all 
your boasted knowledge of the world you could not read 
jealousy and spits' under these fine phrases, made for me by 
a lying English servant? But yours is a strange nation. 
Clever and far-seeing where your money is in question, you 
are in knowledge of character, in all that touches your af- 
fections, easy to take in as little children. You frown im- 
patiently. I shall soon have done. I tell you, Monsieur 
Grey, the meeting you interrupted that day was the first and 
only one that had taken place between your wife and me 
since your marriage. And the attitude in which you found 
me ? Mon Dieu ! nothing simpler — got up for you — un ta- 
bleau vivant motive. She was more surprised than you, la 
pauvrette !" His voice sank. " Since that day four long 
years have passed by. I have spent them in seeking her — 
persecuting her, if you like ; so it was, so it must be. Her 
hatred is strong and bitter. I deserve it for misunderstand- 
ing her. But women have been my study all my life, and I 
never met her like before. You had less cause. What do 
you deserve ? But do not answer me yet. Never fear, proud 
Englishman; your reckoning shall come by and by; my 
task must first be finished. She hid herself from me for a 
long time, but at last I came upon her in a miserable Lon- 
don lodging. The sight of me shocked and terrified her. 
She left London at once, and returned to the lonely place 
where she had lived in the closest retirement since your de- 
aertion. But, woman-like, she had left her address behind 
her. I found it out, followed her, forced myself upon her ; 
and then at last, then first, I understood her. It was in the 
midst of deep loneliness — a loneliness which I saw by her 
face was killing her — that I found her out. She had one 
joy and consolation, a little daughter whom she had trained 
to love you, to wait and watch for your return. I spoke to 
her that day, but she repelled me with scorn and abhorrence- 



A BREAM INTERBVFTED. 401 

Maurice Grey, I offer for myself no excuse. I was mad with 
rage and pain. I determined to punish her. I stole her lit- 
tle one, and in such a way that she might think it had been 
done by you." 

The Englishman could bear it no longer. He sprang for- 
ward, and seizing his enemy by the collar shook him vigor- 
ously : 

" Villain ! do you know what you deserve ?" 

" Patience !" replied the man when he had wrenched him- 
self free from that strong grasp. " You shall have my life. 
Mon Dieu ! it is worth little. But first you must listen to 
me." 

He retreated to the side of the little window, the evening 
light shone full on his face. He fixed his enemy with his 
piercing eyes, to which the fever of his brain had given strange 
brilliancy. " You want to know what brought me here," he 
continued. "I have told you — no love to you, albeit my 
hand and voice may restore you to life and happiness — to all 
life holds most precious and dear. And yet it is love as well 
as penitence that has brought me to this. Love — a truer love 
than I have ever known — to the woman and child whom you 
have forsaken ; for your little daughter changed ray mood. I 
dare not speak of her. It would make me soft when I should 
be stern. She has been with me ever since; she is with 
me now. See her for yourself. She is a living proof of 
what I tell." The man bowed his head. " I give her up to 
you. I have found you for this, that you may take my trea- 
sure. And now — for I read the fierce hunger of your eyes ; 
you Englishmen are all alike, insatiate, uncontrolled — la 
revanche. Well! it is well. Monsieur Grey, I understand 
your nature, and my hand shall supply you with an instru- 
ment. I went into your room to-day. I found these ; I have 
brought them with me." 

He took from a chair on which he had laid them the pair 
of pistols, one of which Maurice had loaded and prepared for 
action only a few days before. 

The sight inflamed him. It recalled to his mind what this 
man had done — how for these long years his life had been a 
blank of good — a burden from which he had even sought to 
free himself He seized the offered case. " Yes," he said 

20 



402 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Btemly, " it is well. Villain, it were a good deed to rid the 
world of such as you." 

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. " Soit done," he 
said calmly ; then folded his arms with the equanimity of a 
red Indian, who looks death and all its horrors in the face 
without shrinking. 

It was too much for Maurice Grey's patience. He dreu 
near to his enemy and shook him roughly : " Do you take nie 
for an assassin ? Come out, if you have any of the feelings 
of a man left in you, and defend yourself," he said hoarsely, 
and led the way to the door. 

L'Estrange followed with a calmness that was no longer 
real, for his nervous system had given way suddenly. The 
tension that had supported him through these long weeks of 
wandering, the iron purpose, the self-constraining force, had 
given way suddenly when the necessity had gone by, when 
his tale had been told, when he had read in his enemy's face 
that it was counted true. 

For this time Maurice could not help himself. Perhaps 
even in his passionate longing for this, a restored belief in the 
truth and purity of her who had once been to him the em- 
bodiment of all that was best and fairest in womanhood, had 
kept him incredulous through Arthur's tale. This strange 
confirmation of its every detail, wrung out from the very tor- 
ture of his enemy's heart, commended itself to him as true. 

He disbelieved her no longer. Rather, his soul was over- 
flowing with passionate repentance and pity — repentance for 
the cruel blow he had dealt her, pity for those years of lone- 
liness, anguish for his own mistakes, for a past that would 
ever remain the past, that no future, however blessed, could 
recall. All this was surging in his brain as he listened to 
those few but fate-laden words, and the first impulse was in- 
dignation against her betrayer. He could not detach his past 
from his present ; out of his own mouth he was condemned. 
Persecutor, villain, torturer of weak women and helpless chil- 
dren (for Maurice had not seen his child ; how could he tell 
that she had not' suffered ill-treatment at his hands ?), he 
should die the death of a dog, be cast out into the frozen val- 
leys to sleep the sleep of bitter ignominy. 

It may be that in the glance cast at him by hi? enemy 



A DREAM INTERRUPTED. 403 

when lie had seized him, when his pale face was close to his 
own, L'Estrange had read this wild determination, for as he 
followed his guide his knees trembled. He was no more the 
accuser, but the accused, the condemned. 

Margaret was avenged. With head cast down and failing 
heart he followed his stern guide, while still the fitful twilight, 
reflected from the dazzling snow, shone cold and calm over 
the hills. The stricken man groaned in spirit. " It is the 
bitterness of death," he said to himself " Mon Dieu ! I am 
punished. I would have seen la petite. She will grieve for 
me." 

His thoughts were broken in upon suddenly ; they had 
reached the border of a deep ravine, and Maurice stopped. 
He looked round : " The light is uncertain, but we shall have 
the same chance. Whoever falls, falls there." 

He pointed down to the abyss, fathomless in the dim even- 
ing light. 

" We have no seconds — allow me to arrange everything." 

He took out the pistols, examined their priming with 
minute care, and handed one to L'Estrange. 

** I will give the word," he said ; " we fire together." 

With steady, measured tread he paced the distance that 
was to divide them, then took his place by the ravine, pale, 
calm, determined — the avenger. 

Maurice Grey did not suppose for a moment that he would 
fall, though, a true Englishman, he would give his enemy a 
fair chance for life. Evil as he believed this man to be, de- 
serving death for the traitorous wrong he had consummated, 
he would yet give him the power of defending himself. But 
as this man of iron nerve counted out unfalteringly the sec- 
onds that divided one of them from death, he showed his 
belief in the issue by the defiance he shouted out across the 
shadows: "But yesterday I would have taken my own life, 
and with this very weapon ; now I take yours. Traitor, cow- 
ard, slanderer of the innocent, prepare for death !" 

Was it the knell of fate ? No answer came from the con- 
demned man, but before the fatal ball could cleave the air, 
before the word that might have meant death to one of them 
had been spoken, he staggered strangely, gave utterance to a 
gurgling cry and fell forward to the ground. 



404 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

CHAPTER V. 
ES 1ST NUB EIN KINDLEIN—ONLT A CHILD. 

What wert thou then ? A child most infantine, 
Yet wandering far beyond that innocent age 
In all but its sweet looks and mien divine ? 

LiGBTTS were glittering in the hotel at Grindelwald — some- 
thing more than the paltry allowance of which Arthur had 
feelingly complained was being displayed, for, late as it was 
in the season, there had been arrivals, and the landlord's 
heart was light. 

He could not understand this fancy of people for keen 
winds, frost and snow, but it suited his purpose and he re- 
joiced. The dull season would be rendered shorter, and his 
winter expenses proportionately lightened. In the fulness of 
his heart he made a great display in the way of illumination, 
lighted the large stove in the small saloon, and did all he 
could to make his friends forget the dreariness and desolation 
that reigned outside. 

For the evening that had fallen with a certain calm, au- 
tumnal beauty had deepened into a blustering, stormy night. 
The wind whistled among the hills, the loose snow-drifts were 
driveu blindingly hither and thither ; it would not have been 
a pleasant night to face. Decidedly, the fireside, or, as at 
Grindelwald, the stove-corner, was the most comfortable 
resting-plac(^ And so the new arrivals, two young English- 
men and a German (the very same, by the bye, who had 
annoyed Arthur by his vigorous " wunderschons" and his 
dutiful " enthousiasmus" in the course of their journey across 
the St. Gothard), appeared to think. 

As the household was principally composed of men, sundry 
indulgences were permitted, and unchecked they discussed 
their cigars and drank their " lager bier" in the saloon, gath- 
ered together in a close circle by the stove, their feet filling 
up by turns its narrow opening. But apparently every one 
in the hotel was not of the same mind. Several times in the 
course of one short aour the Englishmen were driven to JO 



ES 1ST NUB BIN KINDLETN. 405 

dulge in strong language, and the German to splutter and 
fume, by the inroad of a blast of chill air. 

The hotel had not been constructed in such a way as to ex- 
clude draughts, and whenever the outer door was opened the 
cold air sweeping up the passages made itself felt in the saloon. 

" Donner wetter !" said the German at last as the blast of 
cold air came in a continued stream, " I must find out all 
about zis. What can, zen, be ze meaning of it ?" 

" Some one out in the snow," suggested a mild young man 
with auburn hair and pale whiskers. 

" But, my good friend, why not bring him in ?" asked the 
puzzled German. 

" Lost, pewhaps," replied the young man, puffing calmly. 

" Lost, lost ! but what may zat have to do wid ze door ?" 

" Anxious fwiends," replied the Englishman calmly — " ex- 
citable foweigners, I should say." 

The German looked at him in a helpless way, scarcely cer- 
tain whether, as a unit in that generic body known by the 
English under the name of foreigners, he ought to take notice 
of the implied slight. His indecision ended in a walk to the 
door of the room. It was clearly useless to regard the eccen- 
tricities of those proud islanders, he said to himself. If they 
would persist in looking down on other and worthier nation- 
alities, why so they might ; they would find out their mistake 
some day. So absorbed was the German in his mental solil- 
oquy that in passing out from the room he left the unhappy 
door open, and curses not loud but deep followed him from 
the proud islander he had left behind. The German found 
out in the mean time that his sensitive nature had not be- 
trayed him. That the outer door was open became evident 
to him at once by the blast of keen air which swept up the 
dimly-lit passage. 

Two figures were standing in the doorway, faintly shown 
by the light of the little oil-lamp that hung over the entrance. 
One was a fair-haired child, wrapped from head to foot in a 
Bcarlet cloak, the other was the landlord of the hotel. 

He was stooping over the child, his face very red in the 
extremity of his efibrt to make her understand that it was 
impossible for her to go out in the snow. 

■"Mademoiselle — not go — snow cold — mademoiselle be wan- 



iOQ CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNC W. 

der— -lose — nicht finden — " he was saying spasmodically, hold* 
ing the door shut, while she, with her small strength, was 
struggling to open it. 

" But — we can no permit — " he began more fluently. 

The child interrupted him with tears and sobs: "Please let 
me only see if they are coming. Mon pere said he wouli 
come back to-night.^ He is lost. I thought yesterday he waa 
going to die. Oh, please, I know the way he went. It'is not 
very dark. I can always make him better." 

The landlord was in despair. He wanted the assistance of 
some interpreter, and yet he was afraid to leave the child, lest 
she should give him the slip and run out into the snow. 

The appearance of the German was a great relief, for this 
young man had not been accustomed to hide his light under a 
bushel. Wherever he went he exhibited his knowledge of 
English. Already that day the landlord had been astonished 
by his fluency in this most intricate and embarrassing tongue. 

In a few words he described the situation to the new-comer. 
The German immediately addressed himself to the weeping 
child : " Your papa is out in ze snow, my leetle maid." 

The child's tears stopped ; she raised her dark eyes plead- 
ingly to his face: "Not my papa — mon pdre. Oh, please 
take me to find him." 

This was rather embarrassing. The compassionate German 
looked out into the snowy night : " Wid all my heart I would 
help you, liebe fraulein, but you will no doubt perceive I 
know none of ze paths, and you — " He looked down at the 
tiny figure. 

Almost unconsciously these two men had been answering 
that strange womanliness in the little face by treating this 
child as if she had been three times her age. 

The German smiled and looked at the landlord : " Es ist 
nur ein kindlein." Then to Laura, with an assumption of 
sternness, " Leetle maids are sometimes weelful. Zey should 
understand zat ze elders know best. Come now wid me to 
ze fire." 

He put out his hand to lead her, but Laura shrank back, 
her eyes growing large with fear. She did not understand 
being so treated by a stranger. It made her long all the 
more for her friend's protecting tenderness. She rejected the 



EST 1ST NUR EIN KINDLEIN. 407 

hand held out to her with all the dignity of one double her 
age: then suddenly her child-heart failed. She threw her- 
self on her knees on the cold stones, pressed her forehead 
against the door and wailed out her childish plaint : " Mon 
pere ! mon p^re ! come back to Laura," 

Tlie landlord shook his head helplessly, but the young 
German, who had always prided himself on a certain deter- 
mination of character, looked stern. " Dis ees all folly," he 
said ; " as I said just now, leetle maids must not be weelful. 
Komme mit, mademoiselle ; or, as I should say, come wid me, 
mees." 

He stooped to the little figure, all huddled together on the 
3tones, and tried to raise it in his arms, but with sudden 
agility the child escaped him. She stopped crying and stood 
upright against the wall of the passage, facing her tormentor, 
her eyes and cheeks on flame. 

" Go !" she cried, stamping her little foot. *' Why do you 
speak to me ? why do you touch me ?" 

And in spite of his boasted determination the German 
stood back abashed. 

Proceedings were at this stage — the landlord helpless, the 
German doubtful about the next step that ought to be taken 
in the task of subduing this child, who partook so early of 
that proud island-nature which had already called for his 
reprobation, and Laura looking up at them both with more 
than a child's determination in her small face — when another 
actor appeared upon the scene. 

Arthur had been sitting during all that afternoon alone in 
his room, thinking over the occurrences of the past days — ■ 
now hoping, now despairing, as he reviewed in all its minutest 
details the interview of that day. He was torturing himself 
by recalling the eloquent words he had intended to use, but 
had not — the conclusive reasons he might have brought for- 
ward had he only remembered them at the right time — when 
there came to his ears the sound of a child's cry. 

The voice was strangely familiar ; at first he could not re- 
call why it was so, for the memory of his humiliating defeat 
at Moscow had been swamped by the succession of exciting 
events that had followed it. 

Curiosity led him to investigate the matter. He went down 



408 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Btairs, and the first sight of the little flushed face told its tale. 
This was Margaret's child. The second prize he had been 
seeking was actually within his grasp, and in his first excite- 
ment Arthur felt inclined to seize the child and carry her ofi" 
whether she would or not. But experience, the two failures 
that prece<led this most unlooked-for meeting, had taught him 
caution. This time he would not attempt to coerce the strange 
little being whom Fate had thrown in his way, but it was 
quite possible that he might win her over to confidence. Act- 
ing on this determination, he stood back in the shadow and 
bided his time. 

The German was half ashamed of his irresolution. " Lee- 
tle maids must be sensible," Arthur heard him say, and as he 
spoke he tried once more to raise the child in his arms. 

Laura gave a little frightened cry and turned hastily to run 
up the staircase, but only to find her way blocked by one she 
looked upon as another enemy. For even by that uncertain 
light she recognized in Arthur the man who had made an at- 
tempt upon her liberty at Moscow. But this time the child 
was desperate. She stood and faced him like a wild animal 
at bay. 

" Let me pass, let me pass !" she cried. 

He did not attempt to touch her, but, standing aside on the 
staircase, looked at her with kind, gentle eyes. " What is it, 
dear ? is any one hurting you ?" he asked. 

The child looked up into the frank, boyish face and trusted 
him. " Perhaps you can help Laura," she said ; " but — " 

" I was foolish the other day," he said quietly ; " I did not 
quite understand ; you must forgive me." 

" You wanted to take me away from mon p^re, and now" — 
the child burst into tears — " mon p6re is lost. Please, please 
take me to find him !" , 

" Come up stairs and tell me all about it, Laura. I will 
help you if I possibly can." 

Then to the German, who was gazing at him open-mouthed, 
** Sir, this is the child of one of my dearest friends ; I take 
h^r under my protection." 

"As you like," replied he, and shrugged his shoulders. 
* 2^6 young man is ofiended," he muttered, " because I did not 
treat ze blb^ like one great princess." 



ES 1ST NUB EIN KINDLEIN. 409 

"He returned to the stove, while Arthur drew from Laura 
all he desired to know. She had come there with "men 
pSre," as she always called L'Estrange. They were looking 
for papa. Early that day he had told her that he knew 
where her father was— that he would go away alone, and re- 
turn in the evening to let her know if her father had been 
found. He was not very far away, he had said, and the little 
Laura had been waiting and watching all the evening. The 
evening had deepened into night, and still her friend had not 
come back. He must be lost. 

This was the burden of her simple tale. It made Arthur 
think. What could be the meaning of this ? Had a sudden 
repentance seized this man ? Had he really determined to 
find Maurice Grey and tell him the actual truth about his 
deserted wife ? Or could any other motive have moved him 
to seek his enemy? No, no; human wickedness could not 
surely go so far. With this man's child in his grasp, this 
child, whose pure affection he had undoubtedly won, it was 
not possible; and yet if the enemies had met alone, face to 
face, in the great solitude — The young man shuddered. 

" Laura," he said, turning to the littJe one, " I must find 
them at once." 

The child clung about his knees: "Oh, take me with 
you ! Please, please take me ! I can make mon pdre well 
when no one else can — he says so." 

Arthur did not answer at first. He was thinking. He 
rang the bell and made inquiries about a guide, for it would 
have been dangerous on such a night to have made the 
attempt alone. He ascertained that it would be possible to 
obtain one with very little delay. 

The distance which separated them from the chalet was 
not great. They would be two men. The child might easily 
be carried between them, and it was more than probable 
that her presence would do more than anything else to allay 
the fever-heat of the two men, one of whom must love her 
instinctively, while the other evidently loved her deeply 
already. The only fear — and it shot through Arthur's heart 
like a pain — was that they might be too late — that already 
in the fierce anger of that moment, in the awful solitude 
one of these two misht have taken the life of the other. 



410 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SXO W. 

"If I had only known, if I could only have guessed, I 
should never have left him," he said to himself. 

But Laura was still looking up at him anxiously. Be 
answered her with a smile : " If you will wrap yourself up 
well, little one, and submit to be carried." 

" Yes, yes," answered the child joyfully ; " mon pere car- 
ries me sometimes; but" — she stopped, and there came a 
cloud over her face — " I will tire you ; I am heavy." 

She was answered by a knock at the door. There ap- 
peared on the threshold the burly figure of one of the true 
sons of the soil. He was accustomed to much heavier bur- 
dens than the little Laura, wraps and all. The honest Swiss 
was at a loss to understand why this little maiden should go 
with them on such a search, but he did not express his feel- 
ings in any way. He lifted her as lightly as if she had been 
a bird, placed her on his shoulder, and in a few moments the 
hotel, the astonished landlord, the hurt German and the 
glimmering village-lights were left in the distance. 

The little party — the two men and the child — were thread- 
ing the dark, lonely mountain-path that led to the chalet. 

It was a strange experience for a child like Laura, but 
happily for herself she did not understand its strangeness. 
All she knew was that her wish was being accomplished — 
that, guided and befriended, she was hastening through the 
night to find her two fathers. 

Blessed is the faith of earth's little ones ! 

I wonder if the reason for it is that "in heaven theii 
angeb do always behold the face of the Father" ? 



HADST THOU THE SECOND SIGHT f 411 

CHAPTER VI. 

HADST THOU THE SECOND SIGHT f 

Digging thine heart and throwing 
Away its childhood's gold, 
That 80 its woman-depth might hold 

His spirit's overflowing ? 

(For surging souls no worlds can bound 

Their channel in the heart have found.) 

Arthur would not allow his guide to do all the work. 
He wanted to know this strange child — Margaret's child ; 
he wanted to try and understand what was this power, savor- 
ing to his mind of dark magic, that her mother's enemy had 
gained over her. After they had walked in total silence for 
about half an hour he insisted on a change. 

Laura wished to walk, but upon Arthur pointing out to 
her that her small feet would be swamped in the snow, she 
submitted again. She was very grateful to this new ally for 
his prompt carrying out of her wishes, and with that strange 
woman-insight which belonged so peculiarly to this child she 
read in the face of her new guide that in submitting to his 
wishes she could best show her gratitude. 

In Arthur's manner to her there was something of the rev- 
erent devotion that had been one means of drawing her heart 
so completely to the friend she was seeking in the desolate 
Alpine solitudes. The German had insulted Laura by treat- 
ing her like a little child, for her late experiences had drawn 
her on, not from the sweet simplicity of childhood — for in this 
had consisted her power over the wild heart of L'Estrange — 
but from many of its feelings; Laura had become sensitive 
beyond her years, and this under the circumstances was 
scarcely wonderful. She had shared, and probably under- 
stood, her mother's sorrows; she had lived for her sake a life 
too intense for one of her tender years ; she had taken a part 
in struggles of whose existence she ought to have known noth- 
ing; she had thought and dreamed and reasoned till the 
woman-nature that lies hidden in the heart of every girl- 
child had become unhealthily developed. Her childhood, in 



412 CHASTE AS ICE, PVME AS SNOW. 

this sense, had passed by ; Laura would never return to the 
gay carelessness of early youth. 

Gravely she allowed Arthur to gather her up into his arms, 
and as, in their momentary stoppage, the light of the guide's 
lantern shone upon her pale fair face and deep earnest eyes, 
the young man wondered. He wondered at her unchildlike 
beauty — he wondered at his own instinctive reverence, 

"Are you quite comfortable, Laura?" he inquired as he 
drew her cloak over her tiny feet. 

" Quite, thank you," replied the child ; " and you are very 
kind. Mon pdre will thank you ; but oh, I wonder shall we 
find him soon ?" 

"Do you know that we are going to find some one else, 
Laura?" asked Arthur, rather shocked to find her head so 
full of her false father that she had no thoughts to spare for 
her true one. 

"Yes, I know," she answered gravely; "and sometimes I'm 
sorry that I can't love my own papa so much as mon pere ; 
but, you see, I've never seen him : at least, mamma says I 
have; I don't remember at all." She paused a moment, then 
added in a grieved, puzzled tone, " Oh, please tell me — for I 
want so much to know — ought I to love my own papa as well 
as mamma and mon pdre?" The question had evidently been 
tormenting her. 

" You ought to put such ideas out of your little head," said 
Arthur lightly. 

" But I can't," replied the child in a grieved tone ; and 
Arthur, quite perplexed, tried a new set of tactics : 

" What makes you love this person so much whom you call 
mon pfere?" 

"What makes me?" Unconsciously Arthur had started, 
another bewildering question. She raised her head and knit 
her small brows: "It's not because he's good to me, for 
other people have been good to me, and I didn't love them. 
You know loving and liking are different. Mamma told 
me I ought to love my papa, but you see there isn't any 
ought in love, and I must love mon p6re best. Oh, I wonder 
why!" 

This was certainly a strange child. Arthur had not laid 
his hand upon the magic ; her answer only made it appeal 



BADST THOU THE SECOND SIGHT* 4ia 

the more mysterious. He put another leading question : " T» 
he very good to you, Laura?" 

"Mon pere, do you mean? Oh, he is so good! I want 
him to come back with me to mamma, but when I talk about 
it he looks at me in that sad way, like people do w^hen they 
are going to say good-bye. Do you think I shall be able to 
get him to say he will come ? Oh" — the child's face bright- 
ened, a happy thought seemed to have struck her — " will you 
ask him to come ? Perhaps he will do it for you." She went 
on rapidly, for the child-nature was beginning to assert itself: 
" He left a great big dog in the village — big enough to carry 
me on its back, mon pere says. And just fancy! it's to be all 
mine. I wonder how long we shall be getting back to mamma, 
and won't she be pleased ?" For at the thought of the great 
dog, the sea, the village and mamma the painful questiouing 
had passed away from Laura's mind. She was the child 
again — her mother's darling — the tender little one whom 
Margaret loved. 

Arthur's throat contracted strangely as he listened. It 
was such a contrast. The night, the darkness, the desolation 
around them, the horror that might only too possibly be be- 
fore them, and the child's innocent dreams, her unconscious- 
ness of evil, her calm certainty of hope. The idea made him 
press forward almost fiercely for a few moments, but his stolid 
guide called him back to reason. The torch-bearer would 
not hasten ; he went forward with quiet, plodding step, and 
to distance him would have been in the highest degree dan- 
gerous. 

Laura's question remained unanswered, for Arthur had not 
L'Estrange's strength of muscle or iron nerve, and he was 
passing through a mental experience intense enough to draw 
away some of his physical force. His arms began to ache 
and his knees to tremble. He was obliged to give up Laura 
to the guide, and to stop one moment to gather up his strength 
for a new effort. 

Laura was concerned. "I knew I was too heavy," she 
said. 

But the young man answered with a smile, and again they 
plodded on in silence. Their task was not an easy one. In 
some places the ice had gathered in a thin frost-work over 



414 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

the snow, so that where they thought to find sure footing they 
Bank to their knees in the soft, white mass ; in others, the path 
intersecting a meadow was almost undiscoverable by reason of 
the white unity that did away with all known landmarkss. 
But happily, their guide was a good one and the path was 
wol trodden. He knew it thoroughly ; then, before midnight 
had chimed from the village-clock the mists had partially 
risen, the wind had fallen, and the glamour of moonlight shone 
cold over the snow. By its light Arthur saw a thin wreath of 
blue smoke rising from beyond the pine wood they were Hear- 
ing. He pointed it out to Laura, his heart almost standing 
still with the conflict of fear and hope that possessed him. 

The child smiled up into his face. " Mon p^re is there," 
she said. 

"YouT father is there," was the answer sternly spoken, and 
the little one was checked. She said no more, but watched 
till the dark pines, looking weird and gaunt in the moonshine, 
rose high above their heads, shutting out that first glimpse of 
Maurice Grey's dwelling. 

" I will go first," said Arthur ; "I know the way." 

He began to think he had been wrong in bringing the ten- 
der child. He feared the eflfect upon her mind of some 
terrible discovery, she was so utterly unprepared for the 
horror that had been in his mind during the latter part of 
that weary journey. 

The chalet was on the outskirts of the wood, just where 
an Alpine meadow opened out. As Arthur drew near he 
looked up earnestly. No light shone from the little window. 
He trembled, but there was no time for delay ; he knocked 
long and desperately, as one might do who had come on an 
errand of life and death. 

Marie in her night-cap appeared at the window. Her face 
had a scared look ; she shook her head and refused to let him 
in. 

Arthur had forgotten, in his impatience to press on, that if 
those he sought should not be within, the old woman, obtuse at 
the best of times, might fail to recognize and refuse to admit 
him. 

He was obliged to wait until his guide, a person well known 
to Marie, could come up with Laura. His decided summons 



BADST THOU TEE SECOND SIGHT f 415 

bi ought out the old woman again ; she obeyed her country- 
man, and opened the door after very little further delay. 

They entered, and Arthur found that his fears had been 
OE.ly too well grounded. The chalet was empty. It was clear, 
further, from the excited signs made by the old woman as she 
told her story to the guide, that there had been some kind of 
quarrel, and that the enemies had gone out together. 

Arthur wrung his hands. For the first time his heart failed 
him. Had Maurice been found only for this — either that his 
own life should fall a prey to his enemy, or that the stain of 
blood-guiltiness should rest for ever on his head ? — for their 
departure, their long absence, the scared looks of the old 
woman, all pointed to one suspicion ; the two men had left the 
solitary dwelling with no friendly motive actuating them. It 
was more than probable that a fierce conflict had taken place 
— that the meeting in the snows had been fatal to one, per- 
haps to both of them. And then — what then ? He scarcely 
dared to think. 

The old woman had lit Maurice's lamp in the interval. Its 
light shone upon the face of his child. She was gazing with 
lips parted, and eyes in which a certain instinct of some un- 
known horror was gleaming, into Arthur's face. She went up 
to him and touched his arm with her small hand. " Why 
does the old woman look at me like that?" she whispered, 
lifting up a pale, scared face. "And what have they done 
with mon p6re? He's not here." And she looked round 
inquiringly. 

" I am afraid they have lost themselves in the snow," re- 
plied Arthur as calmly as he could. " Laura, we must lea^ e 
you here and go out again to look for them." 

• Them ?" repeated she in a low tone. " Then my own 
papa is with him. But what's the matter? why do you all 
look so frightened ? Is mon p^re dead ? Oh, please, please, 
let me go to him !" 

" Laura, you must be sensible. We cannot take you, my 
poor child ! Stay here with Marie ! Listen, dear ! We may 
go into dangerous places ; we may be lost." 

Bu-t the child did not seem to hear him. There had come 
a strange, sudden look into her face, as though she could see 
more than others saw. She held up her hand. " Hush !" 



416 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

she said in a tone that made Arthur shiver, it was so unchild- 
like in its earnestness ; and even as she spoke that dawning 
consciousness of a certain mysterious horror paled her cheek 
and made her dark eyes large and deep. "Mon pdre is 
calling me," she said. " They are hurting him. Come, 
come !" 

She rushed to the door, and opening it stood for a moment 
on the threshold, mute, in the attitude of deep attention, her 
hands plunged forward into the darkness, as though she were 
appealing to some unseen power, her golden hair thrown 
back from her uncovered head, her face peering out into the 
night. 

Within, no one stirred. It almost seemed as if they were 
waiting for the development of a mysterious power in this 
strange child. And as they stood, silent, motionless, watch- 
ful, there came to their ears a sound. It was distinct from 
the moaning of the wind among the trees, distinct fi ora the 
rush of the torrents, distinct from the rattle of the leafless 
pine-branches. The sound was a groan. It spoke as plainly 
as words of human anguish. 

For a moment none of them stirred, and yet the sound had 
fallen on the ears of all, but this certainty of an unseen, 
nameless horror acted on them like a spell. It was only 
when the child started forward into the night that Arthur 
was aroused from the momentary inaction to a sense of the 
necessity for immediate exertion. 

He rushed after Laura, caught hold of her, and for the 
second time gathered her up into his arras. " My child," he 
said hoarsely, " you must come back. . God only knows what 
we may find out there ! Be calm. We shall do our best to 
bring them to you." The child looked up at him ; she never 
struggled when she knew all struggling would be useless, and 
there was wonder as well as a certain awe in her gaze. 

"What do you mean?" she asked; "none of you under- 
stand. Mon pSre is ill, and papa is taking care of him ; 
and it's cold out there in the snow, but he won't leave him. 
He wants us to help him." 

" Us !" Involuntarily Arthur smiled as he held the t/.ny 
figure in his grasp. 

"We can find them without you, Laura," he said. The 



EADST THOU THE SECOND SIGHT f 417 

guide had joined them with the lantern. "Go in, like a 
good child." 

Iij her turn Laura smiled. "Which way will you go to 
find them ?" she asked. " Listen to me : I know all about it. 
Just now, when I wanted to listen and you would talk, God 
showed it to me in a dream. Mon p^re is ill. He wants 
me — I'll take you to find him." 

Marie stood at the door holding out her arms ; the guide 
moL;''>ued peremptorily that the child should return to the 
chalet. Arthur stood irresolute. He felt half inclined to 
trust to the little one's instincts, and in the delay, while the 
precious moments that might mean life or death to one of the 
two men in the snow were passing, that sound came to their 
ears again — a heavy groan, drawn, it would seem, from a 
heart's agony. 

It was more than Laura could bear, for she, and she alone 
of that little company, knew the sound ; she had heard it 
before. 

In his excitement Arthur's hold on her hand relaxed. 
With a sudden cry she wrenched herself free, and before the 
two men could seize her again her white dress and scarlet 
cloak made a blot on the moonlit snow far on in advance. 
What could they do but follow in her track ? and when they 
had come up with her, when she had allowed herself once 
more to be caught, the light from the open door of the chalet 
gleamed far away in the distance. The wilful little maiden 
was perched once more on the shoulder of the stolid Swiss 
^uide. She arrogated to herself the right of directing hei 
'.ompanions, and it was well. Once, at least, from her tower 
f observation she scented danger and warned them away 
from the brink of a ravine. But the men had a surer guide 
than the dreams of a child. In a part of the meadow that 
was sheltered from the wind Arthur had found the traces of 
footsteps in the snow. 

Strange to say, the discovery was made in the very direc 
tion which Laura had taken when she started on her wild flight. 
Had her loving instincts guided her, or was there really 
something supernatural in her knowledge ? 

Arthur asked himself this question repeatedly as he fol- 
lowed his guide in silence. He never found an answer. The 
27 



418 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

events of that night were always wrapped in a partial my»« 
tery. 

Was it so very unnatural ? Who that has looked into the 
far-seeing eyes of some children, who that has carefully noted 
their strange ways, will be able to answer unhesitatingly that 
it was ? They are nearer to heaven, nearer to the invisible, 
iUan those who have weathered a hundred storms, who have 
lost their faith in humanity, who have travelled for long years 
along the dusty highways of the world, tarrdshing much of 
their soul's beauty, and forgetting too often the grandeur of 
their high destiny. 

What wonder that the little ones sometimes see farther than 
we ? for the invisible chord which binds their soul to heaven 
is, at their tender age, free for the passage to and fro of the 
angels, and it may be that they whisper to the children of 
the things that no eye can see. And the child is ready for 
these beautiful intuitions. It does not question — it believes. 



CHAPTER VII. 
FOB THE SECOND TIME SAVED FROM HIMSELF. 

Oh, unsay 
What thou hast said of man ; nor deem me wrong. 
Mind cannot mind despise — it is itself. 
Mind must love mind. 

The two men and the child pressed on. They had left the 
path behind them, they were winding between huge boulders, 
the debris from some devastating avalanche ; like a mighty 
wall the mountains rose above them, hedging Ihem in on the one 
side, while on the other was the continuation of the pine wood. 

The guide had given up the lantern to Arthur ; he could 
not manage both it and the child, and the young man, a few 
yards in advance, was seeking on hands and knees for further 
traces of footsteps in the snow. 

The groans had not been repeated, and from this Arthur 
augured badly. It might be that the dying nad passed into 
the dead. The young man's heart was sad. He had reckoned 



FOB THE SECOND TIME SAVED. 419 

EO entirely on the success of his enterprise, he had been so 
full of hope, and now it seemed as if the whole— all his hopes, 
all his efforts — was to be swamped in this sudden horror. 
For even if Maurice had escaped unhurt, even if the life of 
his enemy had fallen by his hand in his first horror at the 
discovery of that enemy's dark treachery, what would the 
lesult be on his own mind, on those of others ? — to Margaret, 
who above all things had entreated that this man should be 
unharmed ; to Laura, who loved him with all the strength of 
her young soul ; to Maurice himself, who would feel when the 
deed was done that it was wrongly done, for this man had 
thrown himself, alone and helpless, into his hands, carrying 
as a peace-offering the act of expiation for his past wrongs, 
the confession of Margaret's spotless innocence. Arthur had 
gathered from Laura's words, beyond the possibility of a 
doubt, that this, and only this, had been the intention of 
L'Estrange in seeking an interview with Mr. Grey. 

If he could only have foreseen all this, he said to himself 
mournfully, it might have been so different. 

The voice of the child awoke him from his sad musing. It 
was very low, but in the stillness of that snowy night the 
slightest sound wrote its impress on the air. The earth itself 
seemed to be listening. "We're very near them . now," she 
said ; " I am sure we are. There, there ! listen ! The trees 
are shaking." 

Almost instinctively the two men obeyed her imperative 
gestures. They rounded a great shoulder of rock. It led 
them on to a kind of plateau, studded here and there with 
stunted, snow-laden pines, ending abruptly in a depth of dark- 
ness, for what lay beyond the ravine that bounded it was 
hidden by the snow-vapors. 

At first they saw nothing, but a certain feeling warned them 
to pause and look round attentively. 

" Put me down," cried the child, and as if in answer to her 
call the branches of the pine that overhung the precipice 
crackled and stirred. 

This excited Laura. She broke loose from the guide, and 
once more outstripping her companions rushed forward over 
the snow. A moment more, and her cry, partly of joy, partly 
of pain, drew Arthur to the spot. It was on the very brinu 



420 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

of the ravine, under an overhanging pine tree, whose black 
shadow on the moonlit snow had prevented them from dis« 
covering what lay beneath it. 

L'Estrange was outstretched there, silent, motionless, to all 
appearance dead. Laura was on her knees beside her friend, 
calling out to him piteously to open his eyes and speak to her. 
In her excitement the little one had not seen at first that 
there was another there — that the head of her friend was on 
the knees of a man who sat upright on the cold snow, his 
back resting against the stem of a pine tree. That man was 
her father — Maurice Grey. 

Just before they came up he had fallen into that most 
dapgerous of all states, a sleep among the snows — a dull, numb 
insensibility induced by the constrained posture, the long 
watching, the extreme cold. His child's wail aroused him. 
Hsi opened his eyes, but his first thought was that he was 
dreaming, for as Arthur's lantern was turned slowly on the 
little group he saw in the golden hair from which the scarlet 
hood had fallen back, in the fair, delicately-chiselled face, in 
the dark, mournful eyes, so like his own, the little one he 
had deserted — Margaret's child. How had she come there ? 
Gradually, as the film passed from his senses, he began to re- 
member the events of the night, and the latter part of L'Es- 
trange's strange confession flashed over his mind. While hor- 
ror withheld Arthur from speaking, while the guide, whose 
movements were slower than his, was coming up to their a"- 
sistance, a glimmering of the truth dawned upon Maurice's 
mind. His child had come out to seek this man, his enemy 
— his child was pouring out on her mother's betrayer the 
treasures of her young heart's aflfection. It smote him with 
a sudden pang. 

But no answer came from the stricken man to the child's 
impassioned cries, and suddenly she raised her eyes. They 
met those of her father. She looked at him for a moment in 
silence, and involuntarily Maurice trembled. He was think 
ing of what might have been if the hand of God had not 
forestalled his. 

In his first burst of anger against this man, the destroyer 
of his peace, the slanderer of her who was dearer to him than 
life, it had seemed no crime to avenge himself once and foi 



FOR THE SECOND TIME SAVED. 42] 

eA'er of liis enemy. But with the silence of that solemn 
night other thoughts had come. In the unlooked-for ending 
of their strife that evening God had rebuked him. " Ven- 
geance is mine !" seemed to be crying in his ears. What waa 
he, that he should arrogate to himself the functions that be- 
long to the Divine ? And say what one will, under any cir- 
cumstances it is an awful thing — a thing that can never bt 
forgotten or put away — to destroy human life. 

Maurice Grey was neither weak nor sentimental, but thai 
night as he hung over his enemy, tending as a brother might 
have done the man he had intended to destroy, he shuddered 
at the remembrance of what might have happened in the 
fever of his just indignation. And now, when the child — his 
child — looked up at him, her eyes large with fear for his 
enemy, asking him mutely for an account of this strangeness, 
Maurice was thankful that his answer might be no revelation 
of a tragedy that would have chilled her warm young blood 
and filled her with loathing of him — her father. 

" Who has hurt mon pere ?" asked Laura. 

" Little one," replied Maurice gravely, " he is ill ; he will 
be better soon." 

By this time Arthur was close beside them. He stumbled 
over something hard, stooped, and found a pistol at his 
feet. 

" Don't touch it !" cried Maurice hastily ; " it is loaded." 

" Loaded !" repeated the young man slowly ; " then — " 

" Foolish boy !" replied Maurice with meaning. " I tell 
you this man was taken ill near my door. In the impossi- 
bility of getting assistance to move him, I have been watching 
him ever since his first seizure ; but, for Goodness' sake, don't 
stand looking at us, or we shall die of cold out here ! Get 
your burly friend to help you, and between you perhaps you 
may be able to carry this man as far as the chalet. As for 
myself, I am so cramped and numb that it will be all I can 
do to creep." 

Maurice spoke cheerfully. It was as if a great load had 
suddenly been lifted from his soul. 

Margaret pure, his hands free from blood-guiltiness, his 
little daughter within his grasp ! It was like the opening of 
heaven to a spirit long tormented in the purifying fires. 



422 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

Laura looked up triumphantly as slie heard her father's 
words. " Didn't I say so ?" she cried ; " moR p^re was ill, 
and my own papa was taking care of him?" She stooped 
over L'Estrange : " Mon p^re, pauvre, cher pere !" Then to 
Arthur and the guide: "Oh, please, lift him very gently. 
We must put him beside the fire. It will make mon pdre 
better." 

She made an effort to raise his head on her small arm. 
And at her touch L'Estrange opened his eyes. " Ma fillette !" 
he whispered. Laura was satisfied. 

"I have done him good already," she said, looking rouud 
at Arthur ; " I said J could." 

It was only when she had seen her friend raised, the burly 
Swiss supporting his head and shoulders, Arthur his feet, that 
she had eyes or words for Maurice. He rose with difficulty, 
the little one standing beside him and offering her small hand 
by way of assistance. 

" Have you nothing to say to me, Laura ?" he asked rather 
sadly as he walked, painfully at first, after Arthur and the 
guide, the little one trotting joyfully through the snow by his 
side. 

She looked up at him : " You are my own papa ?" 

" Yes, Laura." 

" And you are coming back home with us ?'"' 

"Yes." 

" And you really want to see mamma again ?" 

"Yes." 

" Then" — ^the child gave a deep sigh — " I am very glad." 

That was the end of the first conversation between Laura 
and her father. They were obliged to look carefully to their 
footing, for two or three times the child had fallen upon the 
frozen snow. She did not seem to care much, but her father 
did ; when at last the congealed blood began to flow through 
his veins, and his wonted vigor to return, Maurice Grey 
stooped and in his turn gathered her up into his arms. 

Laura had found her true place at last. After her wan- 
derings, her strange adventures, her fears and her dreams, 
she was able to lay her head on her father's breast. He was 
a stranger to the child. As yet her love for her false father 
was much stronger than anj feeling for the true; but the 



FOR THE SECOND TIME SAVED. 123 

consciousness perhaps of this, that he was her father, that her 
task was ended, her childish work accomplished, made a deep 
rest steal over her. With her arms round Maurice's neck and 
her head upon his shoulder the child fell fast asleep after her 
fatigues. It was childhood's sleep, dreamless and unbroken. 

So Maurice brought her in to his house, solitary now no 
longer. He would not give her up into Marie's care, but 
taking the blankets from his bed, he arranged them with his 
pillows in a corner near the stove, and laid the little one 
down. There was a soft look in his face as he stooped over 
her. Where was all his cynicism ? It had gone. He was 
thinking of Laura's mother, and reckoning how long the 
time might be before he could himself give back her child to 
her arms. 

And in the mean time the cold dawn was beginning to 
creep over the snow. Maurice turned to his companions and 
held a council of war. They examined L'Estrange carefully, 
and found that one of his arms and part of his side were per- 
fectly dead and helpless. He seemed to be partially para- 
lyzed. 

The question was, What should they do with him ? In the 
solitude of Maurice's little chalet it would be impossible for 
him to obtain the necessary treatment, yet to move a man in 
his condition so far as the hotel would be a serious matter, 
and required more hands than they could muster. 

They had improvised a kind of bed on the floor of the 
small sitting-room ; they were standing round him, Maurice 
and Arthur talking earnestly, the guide only waiting for a 
sign to do anything that might be desired of him, when sud- 
denly, to their astonishment, the man they had thought utterly 
insensible looked up and tried to raise himself. He fell back 
helpless. Then he opened his lips and tried to speak.. Mau- 
rice stooped over him to catch the words, for his voice was 
thick and changed. "La fillette!"he murmured; "I saw 
hei." Then, as Maurice pointed out the child fast asleep 
among the pillows : " It is well," he said quietly, and his 
head fell back again. He was thinking. 

Gradually the events of the night were shaping themselves 
out of the mists which his long insensibility had thrown over 
his mind. " I remember," he said at last in a faint, low tone. 



i24 CHASTE AS ICE, PUBE AS SNOW. 

He beckoned to Arthur, who wondered at the recognition 
which he read in the face of the stricken man. But the dy- 
ing have their privileges. Arthur overcame his repugnance 
and stooped down to listen to his words. " Tell me — " wa^ 
all he said, pointing to the bed where Laura lay asleep. 

The young man understood what he wanted. In as few 
words as possible he told of his discovery, of Laura's anxiety, 
of their midnight journey, and once or twice, as his tale went 
on, a tear rolled down L'Estrange's face, for in spirit as in 
body the man was overcome. 

When it was ended he called Maurice to his side, and held 
out the only hand over which his will had any power, whis- 
pering as he did so, " Is it peace ?" 

Maurice took the hand and held it in his own. " Forgive 
me — " he began, but the man interrupted him with something 
of his old imperiousness. 

" Young people," he said, " lie down — rest." 

It was, after all, the most sensible suggestion. They gave 
him some brandy and hot water, which seemed to revive him ; 
then, as utter weariness had taken possession of Arthur and 
the guide, they thought it best to obey, Maurice, who had 
piled fuel on the stove, declaring his intention of watching it 
and L'Estrange. But he too gave way before long, and the 
morning light streamed in upon the little chalet parlor, full 
of prostrate forms stretched out on the floor and wrapped in 
every kind of material. 

Before the full morning light had aroused the weary men 
Laura had risen from her bed, and had knelt down by her 
friend to place one of the pillows her father had arranged for 
her under his head. 

He was awake, and he opened his eyes with a smile, but 
tlie smile passed into a frown, and Laura feared she had of- 
fended him. The fact was, L'Estrange was steeling his heart 
and hei^s. He wanted to detach himself from his darling — to 
accustom himself to do without her — to teach her, if possible 
to care for him less. 

But the little one put it down to pain, and tears filled her 
eyes " Mon p6re is worse," she murmured. 

She remained by his side till the full light, breaking in 
upon the room, had aroused the sleepers. 



FOR THE SECOND TIME SAVED. 426 

Then another discussion took place. It was very strange. 
But the night "before Maurice Grey would have thought it no 
sin to deprive his enemy of life. Another hand than his had 
smitten L'Estrange, and instead of deserting him, as he might 
have done, leaving him to find his death among the snows, 
Maurice Grey had risked his own life (for the numbness which 
had been creeping over him when his friends came up might 
soon have proved fatal) to watch over his. Perhaps the reason 
might be found in his helplessness. On the previous evening 
he had stood before Maurice as an accuser and a judge, ar- 
raigning him for the folly and short-sightedness which, accord- 
ing to his showing, had been far more instrumental than any- 
thing else in bringing about his suffering and Margaret's. 
And his biting words had found their echo in Maurice's own 
heart, being gifted with a double sting. In the man's attitude 
there had been a certain power, and this it was that had in- 
flamed his opponent, till he had longed with a fierce, sudden 
passion of hatred to punish him to the uttermost. 

For the second time Maurice Grey had been saved from 
himself, and now, as the man he had hated lay helpless at his 
feet — the brain that had conceived and the hand that had 
written that cruel letter torpid, the tongue which had given 
forth its biting irony silent — all his feelings changed. The 
helplessness of the strong man recommended him to his com- 
passion ; the remembrance of the service he had rendered 
him, the consciousness of his penitence for the wrong he had 
committed, softened Maurice toward him. He saw, for the 
first time, in L'Estrange's strange conduct the return to itself 
of a soul that had wandered from his own nobility. Bowing 
his head, the man who had been known as a bitter cynic con- 
fessed his wrong to humanity, his distrust of God. Maurice 
Grey was a changed man. He felt it in the lightness of heart 
with which he rose that morning ; for, say what we will, it 
cannot but be that this hatred of their kind on which some 
men pride themselves is a bad and heart-degr&ding thing, it 
recoils upon itself. A man cannot despise his own nature and 
be happy. Maurice during these wretched years had been 
heaping up misery to himself. But it was over, once and for 
ever. In Margaret's faithful devotion and forgiving love, in 
his enemy's return to a better mind, in his child's simplicity, 



426 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

in Arthur's high-hearted chivalry, Maurice saw the other sid*- 
of the picture he had so long been contemplating. 

In the course of his life of wandering he had been pleasing 
himself by drawing out and marking the weaknesses of hia 
fellows, and he had not found his task difficult ; but now in 
his God-given nature, the nature he had despised, he began to 
see there was something underlying all these superficialities 
For humanity had shown itself to him in its beauty — the 
beauty which made God Himself pronounce it good on that 
creation-dawn when " the morning stars sang together and all 
the sons of God shouted for joy." Maurice Grey thanked 
God and took courage. The discussion between himself and 
Arthur (for the guide was a silent assistant) resulted in very 
little. 

Something in the way of a litter would be necessary to 
take the sufierer over the hills, and at least four strong men 
who could relieve one another. They were only three, and 
it seemed perfectly impossible to construct a litter out of the 
materials at hand. 

The best plan seemed to be for the guide to return to the 
hotel and bring back with him men and litter, also provisions 
of some kind, for Marie's black bread and sausages had been 
so seriously besieged by her numerous invaders that very lit- 
tle, even of this uninviting food, was to be found in the small 
kitchen upon which Arthur made a raid. There was fortu- 
nately enough coffee to supply them each with a strong cup, 
only it had to be taken with goat's milk that had been stand 
ing for some days in Marie's pans. 

Arthur and Laura, the two most fastidious of the little 
party, made many a wry face over the poor fare. These tw j 
had become fast friends ; indeed, the child was in a fair way 
to be spoilt. She reigned like a queen among these men, so 
strangely met together in the solitary's dwelling. The gen- 
eral devotion did not much impress her. Most of her tho J ghts 
svere given to one, and he seemed to take very little notice 
of his darling. Once or twice the tears filled Laura's eyes 
as she noticed how he would refuse what nourishment he 
could take when she offered it, and then receive it from 
another hand. It gave the young heart, premature in its 
development, a biitter pang to feel that the affection of this 



FOB THE SECOND TIME SAVED. 427 

friend might possibly cease. But of all this the child said 
nothing. Breakfast — if breakfast it might be called — waa 
over, the guide was about to start for Grindelwald, Arthur 
was busying himself about domestic matters, trying by his 
rapid movements to quicken the perceptions of old Marie, 
who had been rendered even more stupid than usual by the 
strange events of the night ; Maurice sat by the side of his 
stricken guest, with his little daughter on his knees, when 
over the snow outside there came the sound of voices. 

Laura ran to the window. " Four men," she cried, " and 
a mule, and one of those chairs to carry people, and rugs, 
and a big bundle, and — Oh, I hope there's some white 
bread ; but perhaps they're not going to stop here." 

She appealed to Arthur, the person with whom she felt 
most on terms of equality : " Do go out and see if they'd give 
us just one little bit." 

Her summons drew the whole of the little party to the 
door, just in time to see the small cavalcade draw up, and t^ 
meet the questioning, reproachful gaze of the good Karl, 

To explain his appearance on the scene, it will be neces- 
sary to relate how the ungrateful Arthur had quite forgotten 
his friend's servant, who according to his own showing had 
earned for him the favor of that tete-a-t^te dinner at the hotel 
with the man to find whom he had traversed Europe in its 
length and breadth. 

It was only when the good German showed his round face, 
in which sentiment and joy were struggling for the mastery, 
at the door of the chalet that Arthur remembered his inten 
tion of letting him know of his own return to the hotel and 
his master's whereabouts. The rapid start with Laura and 
the guide, following on the interval of regretful meditation 
in his own room, had put everything else out of his mind, 
and Karl, (vho, as was his wont, had been making himself 
useful and entertaining in the kitchen of the hotel, only 
found out when it was too late to do any good that uneasy 
rumors were afloat in the house about the two Englishmeiit 
one of whom was his master. 

Karl was eminently practical. He lost no time in dream- 
ing about their probable fate. Something — perhaps an ac- 
cident to his master, since the younger man had returned for 



428 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

assistance — was detaining them at the chalet. The chalet 
was ill-provided with food and necessary comforts. As soon 
as it could be possible to gather together a company large 
enough to be useful in any emergency, he would find his way 
to his master. 

He spent the rest of the night in making every arrange- 
ment. Before dawn he and his party of three stalwart men 
were on foot. Hence their arrival at a comparatively early 
hour of the morning. 

Karl's astonishment at the appearance presented by the 
chalet was very great, and it was blended with reproach. 
His master and his master's friend were on their feet, appa- 
rently uninjured ; they seemed to have plenty of assistants, 
for the guide, Marie, Arthur, Maurice and the child made an 
imposing show in the small doorway; it was impossible to 
tell how many more might be behind them. Why, then, 
had he, the Englishman's faithful servant, been forgotten in 
this strange jubilee ? 

But his helpful nature reasserted itself when he found how 
very much his services were needed. In the course of a few 
minutes he was bustling about, acting as interpreter, preparing 
a substantial meal for Maurice's half-starved little company, 
presenting everybody with shawl or rug, and making himself 
generally useful. 

Laura had her white bread and some sugar and milk. Ar- 
thur and Maurice rejoiced in the dissection of a fowl, and the 
guide had a fresh and unlimited supply of sausages; they 
were therefore soon sufficiently strengthened to think with 
equanimity of a new start. The poles of the chaise-h-porteur, 
brought up in case of emergency by the provident Karl, 
formed, with mattresses and ropes, an excellent litter. On 
this they laid L'Estrange, well wrapped up in rugs and 
blankets. 

Before the sun had risen very high in the heavens the lit- 
tle cavalcade was in motion — Laura mounted on the mule 
which her father led ; L'Estrange, passive as an infant, in the 
litter they had prepared for him; the rest of the party on 
foot. 

As they entered the pinewood, Maurice turned, and shading 
his eyes from the morning sun, took one last look at his tern- 



A FARTING. 429 

poraiy dwelling. It had been the home of his solitude, the 
mute witness of despair that had reached its climax in those 
last days when his life had seemed a burden too heavy to be 
borne, and he was leaving it — leaving it and the past life for 
ever. 

His pride had been rebuked, his self-reliance had fallen. 
But a few months before he had thought himself sufficient to 
himself: that madness had gone ; human interests had already 
begun to throw their sweet influence around him ; from the 
hermit's dwelling he was going out once more into the great 
world. It had done its work. The trial-time was over. He 
«ras stronger and better. His faith in God and humanity had 
returned. He could now look forward with hope — not, per- 
haps, the sauguineness of youth, which hopes simply because 
to despair would be impossible, but hope resting on a well- 
grounded confidence in himself, in humanity, in God. 

Maurice Grey's after-life was not without its troubles, but 
through them all he never lost sight of the lessons learnt in 
his hermit life. Painfully gained, they were earnestly held. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

A PARTING. 

Thou whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy soul's immensity ; 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage ; thou eye among the blind : 
Thou over whom thy immortality 
Broods like tlie day, a master o'er a slave, 
A presence which is not to be put by ! 

In the hotel they returned, for the moment, to their old 
arrangements. The faithful child would not forsake her 
friend ; his illness had, if possible, only endeared him to her. 

L'Estrange was better. The shock had only been very 
partial On the day following that of his return to the hotel 
he was already able to speak intelligibly, and to understand 
everything that went on around him. It was the morning of 



430 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

that day. Laura had been busy about the room putting 
everything tidy, as she said in her childish way, for h^r father 
had sent his servant to say that he would pay them a visit. 
She noticed that the eyes of L'Estrauge followed her pain- 
fully about the room. There was a trouble in his face the 
child did not quite understand. Except for bis illness — 
which, childlike, Laura looked upon as something very tran« 
sient — she could not see in their present circumstances any 
cause for sadness. Her mind was troubled with no doubts 
about the right course to pursue. They were all to go back 
to her mamma as soon as ever her friend could be moved. It 
had never crossed her gentle mind that he was to be shut out 
of their happiness, and, so far as she was concerned, she had 
no intention of leaving him. 

The heart of the little child was light. Everything had 
come about as she had hoped. 

But Laura, young as she was, had been too often in the 
presence of suffering not to recognize it, and her friend had 
taught her to observe. She read the sorrow in his face 
and went to his bedside : " Mon p^re, what is it ? Are you 
worse?" 

" Come to me, fiUette," he answered, and with his left hand 
he drew her face to his. 

The child smiled : " Pauvre cher p^re, why do you look so 
Borry ? You ought to look glad, because we're all going back 
to mamma. Oh, I am so happy! That night, mon p^re, you 
remember, when you were out in the snow, and I thought you 
were lost, and I was to be left alone with people who said 
cross things, I wasn't happy then ; but now it's all right. My 
papa is found — and," she lowered her voice as if speaking in 
confidence, " I think I shall love him too — then we shall see 
mamma again — " 

She stopped suddenly, for the tears were falling one by one 
over her companion's face. To a stronger heart than Laura's 
the sight would have been pitiful. This stern, self-contained 
man did not often express his feelings. Even the child he 
loved had trembled sometimes as she looked at his dark, 
strong face — even she had feared to intrude upon his silence ; 
now all was broken down. Weakness as of a little child had 
taken hold upon him. Laura was very much distressed 



A PARTING. 431 

With tears of sympathy in her own eyes, she stroked the 
dark, passionate face, murmuring gentle words. 

He spoke at last, and there was a sternness in his voice that 
might have repelled the child had she not known her friend 
80 well. " Laura," he said, " you must not again say such 
things as these ; you must try and understand, little one. 
What must be, must be ; and thou and I must part. Hush ! 
hush !" 

For Laura's face was averted ; she had hidden it in the 
bed-clothes ; she was weeping in the silent, unchildlike way 
that once or twice before had moved L'Estrange so deeply. 
In his weakness the man had much difficulty in preventing 
himself from giving way once more and weeping with her, 
but he controlled himself, for he was determined that no one 
but himself should make her understand. 

" Laura," he said very tenderly, laying his left hand on the 
soft, golden head he loved so well, " it is necessary — you must 
go. I am not worthy of this love, and your mother is wait- 
ing for you." 

" But, mon p^re — " Laura lifted up her tear-stained face 
and met his deep, stern eyes. Her voice faltered, for, child 
as she was, she read his resolve. " You will be better," she 
said, " and come too." 

" Never," he answered slowly. " Listen, little one." He 
put away the hair from her face and looked at her long and 
tenderly : " In years to come — ah, petite, long, long years — 
after your friend has been put away under the ground, ma 
fillette will be a woman, tall and beautiful and good ; then 
she will know and understand that this thing is right ; then 
she will know that her friend, who loved her, acted for the 
best in this — that what my Laura desires would not be possi- 
ble. She must say to her old friend good-bye ; she must go 
away to those who love her ; not better — that could not be — 
but to those who have a greater right to her love. Why do 
you care for me, fillette ? Ah, mon Dieu ! it is painful," he 
added as if to himself, for the child's sobs had never ceased. 

He drew her face down to him again : " Little bird, it ia 
not well. These deep feelings give me grief. Thine is the 
age of laughter. Think then of la pauvre maman — she is 
weeping too." 



432 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

" Yes," replied the child through her tears. " I want to go 
back ; but oh " — a happy thought had struck her; she clasped 
her hands and looked up into her friend's face — " if papa and 
I go away now, at once, you'll get well and come after^vard. 
This won't be saying good-bye for always : please, please, say 
it won't." 

He felt inclined to give her an indefinite answer, to let her 
think that it should be as she wished ; but when he looked 
into her dark, imploring eyes — the eyes from which shone out 
the tenderest, most innocent soul that had ever loved him in 
all his wild career — he felt that to deceive her would be im- 
possible. He answered slowly and calmly, with the manner 
of one who for ever puts away some beautiful thing out of 
his sight : " Thou hast said it, fillette. Good-bye for always," 

"Always! always!" The child repeated the word, her 
large dark eyes dilating as if with some hidden awe. " Mon 
p^re," she said almost in a whisper, " it is so long — always, 
for ever. Do you mean that I am never, never to see you 
again ?" 

He looked at her curiously. In his old way he was ana- 
lyzing. He was trying to understand the sudden emotion 
that had blanched the little one's cheek and brought that 
look of awe into her eyes. It was not the first time that this 
vague terror of the unknowable had taken possession of this 
strange child's mind. 

She shivered slightly as, standing by her friend's side, she 
reasoned out the matter with herself: "Mon p^re, what does 
it mean? To-day ends, and to-morrow will end; and this 
year and next year, and every year, I suppose, till we die ; 
and then — after then — there is heaven and for ever — always, 
always, for ever. I can't understand it. Oh, mon p6re, is it 
true ?" The child was in an agony. This was the mental 
torture that had, several times, racked her brain. 

"And," she added under her breath, with the look and tone 
of one treble her age, " in all this for ever — so long, 30 long — 
I must not see mon pdre any more." 

It was L'Estrange's turn to tremble. Rapidly as in a 
dream the remembrance came of that first day when for his 
own purpose he had implanted into the little one's mind 
thoughts and ideas too great and strong for one of her years. 



A PARTING. 433 

" Mon Dieu !" murmured the stricken man, " and must it 
always be thus ? I only love to blight and poison." 

" Laura," he answered aloud — and his voice was grave and 
earnest — " you take things too much to heart. Try now to 
understand me, little one. Words have a certain meaning of 
their own, but people maj give them too much meaning or 
too little. When ma fillette is older she will know that * al 
ways may sometimes mean a day, a week, a year — sometimes 
indeed this for ever of which she speaks so earnestly, but 
very, very seldom. Look up, petite. My always is not at all 
so very terrible. All I mean is this : you must go back home 
with your own father, and leave your friend here. See ! I 
have made a letter be written to Paris, to the person whom 
you will remember there. Marie will come and help me to 
move to her little house ; then if ever ma fillette comes to 
Paris she will know where to hear of her old friend." 

" Oh, please let me have it," cried the child. She took the 
letter from the hand of L'Estrange, sat down before the table, 
and copied the address, letter by letter, in her large childish 
handwriting, her friend spelling it over for her that there 
might be no mistake. Then she folded up the paper and 
clasped it in both hands. " Mon p^re," she said, " I will 
never lose it." 

In the practical action Laura's dreamy fears had fled. 
Hope, the hope of a young child, reasserted itself once more. 
" I will show it to mamma," she said, " and we'll come to- 
gether to see you ; then perhaps — " 

She was interrupted by a knock at the door. Her father 
was outside waiting for admittance. 

As might have been expected, Maurice Grey had lost no 
time in making all needful preparation for their journey to 
England. He was in a fever of anxiety to be moving once 
more, to be on his way to his injured wife, to assure himself 
of her forgiveness and continued love. And there had been 
certain points in the story told by Arthur which had alarmed 
him. Margaret's poverty : the thought of this gave him per- 
haps the keenest pang he had experienced. He could not 
understand it, for, as has already been seen, Maurice Grey 
was not exactly to blame for this ; but in his after review of 
all the circumstances he blamed himself bitterly for what he 
28 



434 CHASTE AS ICE, FUBE AS SyOW. 

now looked upon as his own weak-minded folly in preserving 
this total silence. He had thought of his own pain in the 
event of all his fears receiving fatal confirmation, and his 
wife, so tenderly reared, had been suflTering. 

Then her delicacy, the sudden collapse of her powers. The 
thought of this was almost too hard to be borne, for if — if 
there should be disappointment before him — if he could 
never ask her forgiveness for the cruel wrong he had com- 
mitted, never hold her again to his heart, never let her know 
how deeply through it all he had loved her — the man felt as 
if it would be better even to die himself. The bare idea 
maddened him. 

He would willingly have cut through the air to reach her, 
and the necessary delay chafed his spirit. Since the moment 
of their return to the hotel the Englishman had been busy in 
making every preparation for departure. 

Happily for him, the season had not yet entirely closed. 
Sledges would have to be used in various parts of the jour- 
ney, and guides and drivers would probably require to be 
highly feed ; but this Avas a matter of very small import. 
All he desired was speed, Arthur seconded his efforts ably. 
As the diligence had ceased running between Grindelwald and 
Interlachen, and the steamers no longer made their daily 
journey on the lake, a visit to Interlachen had been neces- 
sary, that special arrangements might be made as well for 
this as for their further journey; the railway connecting Thun 
with Berne had not then been completed. 

It was arranged that Arthur should act as courier, preced- 
ing them to Thun to have relays prepared, and that Maurice 
should return to Grindelwald for Laura. 

The child had not seen him since their journey through the 
snow from his solitary chalet in the mountains. She was a 
little shy of this new father, though inclined, as she had ex- 
pressed herself to L'Estrange, to think that she should love 
him. 

The fact was, that Laura, too much given to reason upon 
every point, could not quite reconcile to herself his love for 
her mother and his long absence. This had tormented the 
little one considerably during these last days. She took his 
caresses that morning very calmly. She would have run 



A rARTiya. 436 

away then and left her flithcr and friei I al<^ne togethtr, out 
L'Estrange detained her. She obeyed his gesture and sat 
down again by his side. 

Maurice drew her toward him, " Laura," he asked, " are 
you ready to come home ?" 

'• Now ?" said the child, « at once ?" 

"You want to go back to mamma, Laura?" he said 
gravely. 

The child stood silent, trembling from head to foot. She 
was afraid to show what she felt before her father. 

" Come," said Maurice, " we must thank your friend who 
has been so kind to you, and say good-bye to him." 

Laura looked at L'Estrange. The proud face was turned 
to the wall. Weak as he was, he would yet show nothing be- 
fore Maurice Grey. She went close up to his side. He 
motioned her away from him, and the heart of the little child 
could bear no longer. " Mon p^re will die if I go away," she 
cried piteously. She covered her face with her hands and 
began to cry. It was difficult for Maurice to know what to 
do. The child's tears made him feel perfectly helpless. He 
was not accustomed to little ones, and he felt inclined not only 
to wonder, but to feel rather angry, at the strange power thi? 
man, her mother's bitterest enemy, had gained over the child's 
mind. 

He answered her with a man's impatience. Like others, he 
forgot for the moment, in her strange womanliness, that Laura 
was only a little child. " My dear Laura," he said sternly, 
■■'I must have no more of this. Leave off crying at once, 
and do as I tell you. Say good-bye to Mr. L'Estrange, find 
your cloak and hat and come with me. I have told the maid 
to put your things together, and a sledge is waiting at the 
door." 

Her father's voice checked the child so suddenly that the 
moment he had spoken he reproached himself for having 
apoken too strongly. 

She left off crying at once, looked up wfth a pale, resolute 
face, and went into her own room to get ready for the journey. 
Then, when the scarlet cloak and hood had been put on by 
the sympathetic Gretchen, Laura returned and stood ouc< 
more beside her friend. 



456 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

" Papa," she said, turning to Maurice, " I'm quite ready, and 
you may go down now. I shall come presently. Please, I 
want to say good-bye to mon pere alone." 

Maurice could not have been more astonished if he had 
suddenly seen his little daughter put on her womanhood than 
he was at this calm demand. He even hesitated a moment. 
But the little one stood her ground. 

Laura's instincts had told her what it was that had made 
her friend so suddenly cold and distant. She could not leave 
him without one more kind word ; then, on the other hand, 
the presence of her father, and his stern forbidding of her 
ready tears, prevented her from letting her friend see some at 
least of the love and gratitude that filled her small heart. 

Maurice looked at the tiny figure and smiled : " My daugh- 
ter has her father's will. Well, little one, I suppose I must 
give in this time. It is natural, perhaps, that you should feel 
this, only don't be too long about your adieus." 

He turned to L'Estrange, thanked him for his kindness to 
the child, asked if he could do anything for him before he 
went away ; then, when the question had received a decided 
negative, bade him a courteous farewell. 

Once more, and for the last time, the child and the man — 
the child so near heaven in her simplicity, the man world- 
weary and travel-stained — were left alone together, and now 
the little one felt that it was really for the last time. 

He turned his face toward her. She threw herself down on 
her knees by his side, sobbing convulsively. " Mon pere," she 
cried piteously, " is it for ever ?" 

For a few moments he was silent. In the sorrow of part- 
ing from this only creature in the world who purely loved him, 
the memory of that night when God's peace had been shed 
abroad in his soul, when the tumult of his heart had been 
elayed by the consciousness of a presence above and around 
him, returned to his mind. He was alone and hopeless no 
longer. " Little one," he answered, drawing her soft cheek 
to his, " you must.look for me there — in heaven." 

" I will, I will," answered the sobbing child, for heaven 
%i this moment seemed near and real to her. 

She was about to rise, but he drew her down again : " Lau- 



A PARTING. 437 

la, remember, if I go there ever it will be through thee. My 
child! my child!" — his voice broke down suddenly — "the 
great God bless thee, now, every day of thy life, and even for 
ever !" 

A knock at the door ; the child's father was becoming im- 
patient. Laura rose, kissed her friend once more, smoothed 
his bed-clothes as she had been accustomed to do, then turned 
away, choking back her sobs. The little one could not trust 
her own father yet. She was afraid he would be angry. She 
did not dare to look back at the door : she went, and L'Es- 
trange was left alone. 

The excitement had been almost too much for him in his 
weak state. That night L'Estrange thought that he would die. 
They were very kind and attentive to him in the hotel, did 
everything that could be done to lighten his sufferings, but 
all he wished was to be left alone, that he might die in peace. 
He was mistaken, however, as he had often been before. 
This stroke did not mean death. A few days after Laura's 
departure he was able to sit up, a day or two later he was 
trying to teach his left hand to do the duties of the right, and 
before a fortnight had passed his friend from Paris had 
arrived. 

Sorely in those days of enforced solitude he had missed his 
little comforter, but Marie's bright, helpful presence did 
much toward restoring hira. He recovered in time to a cer- 
tain measure of health and strength, and yet the man was 
changed. 

The spirit that had faced the world's storms, that had made 
joys for itself wherever fate had thrown him, was broken 
down. He Imd no aims, and to begin again his life of wan- 
dering seemed desolate beyond measure. 

Perhaps his intercourse with Laura, and that parting which 
had wrung both their hearts, had stung him in this : it had 
brought before his mind the torment of that " might-have- 
been" which lurks in the background of pleasure and self- 
seeking to seize upon the remnant of a wasted life. It waa 
his retribution, the portion he had prepared for himself, but 
none the less was it bitterly hard to be borne. 

L'Estrange never regained his former vigor of body oi 
strength of mind. He spent the rest of his life in wander 



■138 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

ing, for no ties held him to any particular place, and he waa 
restless. 

He wrote to Margaret as soon as ever he had acquired suffi- 
cient power over his left hand (the right remained for some 
time comparatively helpless). The letter was a pouring out 
of his heart, a confession of her wrongs. He took no merit 
to himself for having been instrumental in restoring her to 
happiness. He only offered this as a proof of his sincerity, 
he only asked for a line to let him know he was forgiven. 

They never met again ; indeed, L'Estrange did not livf 
very much longer, but his end was peace. 

" After the burden and heat of the day, 
The starry calm of night." 



CHAPTER IX, 
THE NEST IS EMPTY. 

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, 
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, 

And the year 
On the earth, her deathbed, in a shroud of leaves dead, 

Is lying. 

One evp-uiug — it must have been in the month of Novem- 
ber, wh^n the days had grown short and the nights long, 
wh^n the autumn winds whistled bleakly and the waves were 
giv^.ji to lashing the shore — a young girl sat alone at the win- 
dow of a room which only the red fire and flickering twilight 
redeemed from total darkness. She was looking out, gazing 
with dreamy eyes that saw very little of that upon which 
they were apparently fixed, at the desolation of the world 
that lay outside. And yet that desolation was writing iis 
impress on her brain, giving to the inner life the images of 
dreary hopelessness that belonged for the moment to the 
outer. 

The young girl scarcely saw the leafless giants shivering in 
their nakedness, or the leaden clouds driving restlessly ovei 
the sky, or the drrk sea moaning, plunging like a mighty 



THE NEST IS EMPTY. 439 

.!.ij)g tied down — a power compelled hy a higher power to 
niiisrahle inaction ; yet these things were Avith and around 
her ; they helped to call that deep look into her eyes, to canse 
the impatient sigh that escaped her now and then. Insile, 
there was nothing to disturb her meditation. In the room 
and in the house was an utter stillness. It was the stillnesa 
of watchers engaged in a hand-to-hand struggle with man's 
hist and darkest foe. For that struggle had been going or 
iu the little house during three or four long days and nights, 
cuul now, at last, a lull had come. The patient slept. 

Toor Ad^le ! It could scarcely be matter for wonder that 
her cheek looked pale and her blue eyes deep, that impatient 
sighs broke from her, that she was ready to sympathize with 
the gray desolation of a winter night. For Ad^le had been 
passing through a time of anxiety such as she had nevei 
before experienced. 

Margaret dyhig, Arthur gone — no word, no line to let them 
know the fate of the wanderers — no possibility of being able 
to give the sufferer the news for which her soul was craving — 
nothing in all the here and hereafter but vague uncertainty, 
but cruel delay. 

And Adele, iu the bitterness of her spirit, had begun to 
doubt about everything. It had been so hard to watch the 
patient sufferer, to know that in any moment she might be 
the prey of death — that the pure, noble life, worn away by 
sorrow, might pass into the invisible without one gleam of 
light to cheer it on its progress ; it had been so hard to listen 
in the sombre light of the sick room to the passionate ravings 
of the faithful wife, and to realize the utter impossibility of 
bringing her that for want of which her life was waning. 

These things preyed upon Ad^le's mind. In the darkness 
and solitude, in the suspension of immediate anxiety, her 
heart sank, her spirit began with itself humanity's dreary 
questioning. 

Everywhere, everywhere — in the angry cries of the young 
child, in the quiet sorrow of those of riper years, in the patient 
sadness of the aged, in the pallor of young faces — it can be 
read — the why that rises evermore to Heaven, the great mys- 
tery of human woe. Shall it be answered one day? Ah, 
who can doubt it? Else were we wretched beyon;] compare. 



440 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

The why was in Ad^le's heart that evening, welling up 
from its innermost depths, proving itself too strong and terri- 
ble for her young brain to fathom. And still she sat there, 
her arms folded and her pale face looking seaward, thinking, 
thinking. 

Once or twice she turned to look at her companion. Mar- 
garet was on the sofa. For the first time since that attack 
of brain-fever which had so terrified" her devoted nurses she 
was dressed, and her dress was of the soft, pale material which 
Maurice loved. 

They had been afraid of the fatigue, for Margaret was very 
ill. Emotion, anxiety, suspense had told upon her to such a 
degree that at last her life had beenjdespaired of. 

For three days her mind had been wandering. Such 
strange, pathetic wandering it was that often and often tears 
had poured down the cheeks of those who watched over her. 
But early in this evening her senses seemed suddenly to return. 
There came a light into her eyes; she sat up and looked round 
her. And then she insisted upon being dressed and taken 
into the little parlor. They could not refuse her, though the 
old woman shook her head ominously, " It's well to be seen,** 
she whispered to Ad^le, " what the end of it a' will be. Puir 
leddie!" and she wiped her eyes, " the sair heart hae dune it» 
Humor her bit fancies, baimie ; 'twill be the same, ony gait.'* 

Weeping in spite of herself, Adele obeyed the old nurse. 
They dressed Margaret with minute care, combed the waving 
hair — short now, alas ! — from her white forehead, put on her 
the trailing lavender-colored dress and the pretty lace ruffles, 
wrapped the Indian scarf round her shoulders, and laid her 
down, exhausted but happy, on the parlor sofa. 

She thanked them with her gentle smile, gave a sigh of in- 
tense contentment; then, after a few moments, fell into a 
quiet, healthy sleep. 

It was this sleep which Ad^le had been watching in the 
dark room until, so quiet and peaceful had been the sleeper's 
face, the tension on her watcher's nerves was partially relaxed. 
She turned from that earnest gazing at the pale face, so beau- 
tiful in its pure outlines, to look at the outside world — to 
think and dream and hope. For in the heart of the young 
hope is ever rampant. It is only when years of experienca 



THE NEST IS EMPTY. 441 

have si own Lope's futility that the radiant companion forsakea 
the soul. Forsakes ! Ah, in thousands of instances scarcely 
forsakes — rather takes a higher ground, shows a larger pros- 
pect. In the dreariness of wintry age hope is still busy, gild- 
ing not the transitory here, but the lasting beyond. 

Adele had not reached that stage of experience. Her 
young heart, though ready at times to look forward even to 
that shadowy beyond, was yet very busy with the here, the 
sweet earthly happiness which all young humanity is earn- 
estly craving. 

That evening there seemed very little to feed her persistent 
hopefulness. Another day and yet another, with no line from 
Arthur, the consciousness of his devotion, of his thoughtful 
affection, making his silence the more strange and ominous ; 
winter in its dreary desolation looking in at her from sea and 
land, telling loudly of the difficulty — even perhaps the dan- 
ger — of travelling ; the life of her friend waning, passing in 
its miserable famine of all that makes a woman's joy. These 
were the gloomy thoughts with which the hopefulness of the 
young soul struggled that evening. 

For a few moments they overpowered her. In a dark 
phalanx rose before her mind tales of sorrow and wrong; 
pallid faces passed her by, tones of bitter misery rang in her 
ears. She covered her face with her hands. " They are the 
many," she cried, " the great multitude ! Why should any 
think to be happy? God help us! for this is a dreary world." 
The words were spoken half aloud, for in the momentary de- 
spair she had forgotten everything but this — the aching of 
her own heart, the sadness of a hope-forsaken world. 

She was aroused by a slight rustling among the leaves out- . 
side. 

The house was very solitary, and the lonely women had 
more than once experienced that nervous terror which shud- 
ders at a sound and sees an intruder in every shadow. How- 
ever, they kept nothing of great value in the house, and they 
had hitherto had no real cause for uneasiness. But Ad^le in 
all her night-terrors had never heard anything so meaning as 
this stealthy rustling among the branches. She leaped to her 
feet and peered out into the night. This time she had not 
been deceived. At the gate there was a vision of fluttering 



't42 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

garments. AdMe thought she recognized the form that was 
passing out into the night. With blanched face and trembling 
limbs she flew, rather than ran, across the room. It was al- 
most too dark to see, but feeling on hands and knees the young 
girl discovered, to her horror, that the sofa was -empty. 
Those fluttering garments were Margaret's. An access of 
fever had come on. In its delirium she had rushed out to 
meet certain death in the cold and desolate night. 

For a moment Addle -was almost paralyzed by this new 
misfortune — fruit, as she told herself bitterly, of her own care- 
lessness ; then gathering her wits rapidly together, she threw 
a shawl round her head and rushed out in pursuit of the 
fugitive. She did not even wait to let the landlady and the 
old nurse know of their patient's flight. Time was the great 
consideration. Margaret might be stopped and brought back 
before any serious mischief should have happened. 

And thus it came about that the two elder women, who 
were in the lower part of the house enjoying a cup of tea and 
a chat, in the pleasant relaxation of that anxiety which had 
been oppressing them all, knew nothing whatever of the 
atrange commotion, of the mysterious flight of the two 
younger, for whose safety either of them would have staked 
her life. 

The little parlor was deserted, the red fire flickered and 
waned, the door of the house stood open, through the dark 
hall the wind whistled and shrieked ; while all the time, out- 
side in the darkness, by the shores of the moaning sea, life 
and death, reason and madness, love and folly were carrying 
on their fierce, impatient strife. 

Had Addle waited for one more moment, she might have 
been startled by another sound. Scarcely had she left the 
little house, wild with anxiety, to discover and bring back her 
friend, before there came from the direction opposite to that 
she had taken the sound of horses' hoofs that achoed through 
the silent night. 

For this was what had been happening in the mean time. 
A carriage had been driving as rapidly as a very poor horse 
could take it in the direction of the cottage. Inside it were 



THE NEST IS EMPTY. 443 

a young man and a child, neither of whom spoke a word for 
the intensity of their outlook into the night. 

A horseman rode beside them, and at times it seemed as if 
his impatience could scarcely be restrained, as if it were im- 
possible for him to suit himself to the slow movement of the 
carriage. 

There was a cry at last from the child, which the horseman 
heard. He half stopped and bent over her, then rose again 
erect and vigorous, for the little hand had pointed out hia 
goal, and the dark spot, still in the distance, but faintly show- 
ing against the background of sea by the solitary lamp that 
shone before it, was the shrine that held his treasure. A mo- 
ment, and Maurice Grey was tearing wildly along the road. 
Would that faint light ever grow nearer? Maurice was wont 
to say in after years that those minutes spent in rushing 
through the darkness were the longest he had ever known. 

But the longest minutes have an end. The panting horse 
was drawn up at last before the solitary lamp. Blindly and 
madly, not thinking of what might become of it, Maurice 
threw himself from his saddle, burst open the little garden- 
gate, and trying, but in vain, to steady his trembling nerves, 
walked up the path. 

But as he looked at the cottage his fierce pace slackened, 
and a sudden horror seized him, for in its dreary solitude it 
looked like death. 

Maurice stopped for a moment. The heart of the strong 
man, the heart that had borne so much, beat violently. He 
thought he must have fallen to the ground, but gathering him- 
self together he pressed forward, trying to reassure his coward 
heart. 

" They are in the back part of the house, of course," he mut^ 
teied. The door of the cottage stood wide open. "Strange," 
he thought, " on so cold a night !" 

Noiselessly the husband, who was a stranger in his wife's 
house, passed into the little hall, and still that sickening 
silence, that dreariness of solitude, met him. A faint light 
glimmered from the remnants of the parlor-fire. He peered 
into the room ; it was dark and seemingly empty. Maurice 
struck a match and looked round him. The red ashes, the 
position of the chairs, the tumbled covers, the crushed sofa' 



444 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

pillc, fT, all told of recent occupation ; and indeed the two 
ftigitives could scarcely have gone many yards from the 
house. As he gazed the haggard face relaxed. Crossing to 
to the sofa, he stooped and pressed his lips to the pillow, for 
something told him that Margaret's head had been there. 
But his match died down ; he was left again in darkness. 

"Was anything stirring," he asked himself, " in this house 
of death ? Where was she the traces of whose presence he 
was finding in the deserted room ?" 

He decided to remain there for a moment. It could not 
but be that before many moments should pass the music of 
her voice would meet his ears, and then he could discover 
himself. But waiting met with the same fate as searching. 
Not a sound, not a breath broke the stillness. It was a 
strange coincidence. In the very room, by the very spot 
where the deserted wife, the bereaved mother had thrown 
herself down, almost lost, even to herself, in her anguish, he 
stood, he waited, his heart sinking with vague dread, his spirit 
fainting in its sickening suspense, the man who had deserted 
her. the husband who had misunderstood, who had lightly 
judged her. 

The first sound which met Maurice's ear was the rattling 
of the wheels that announced the approach of his compan- 
ions. He rose and went to the door of the room. Surely 
this new sound would be heard. In the little hall, on the 
narrow staircase, he might catch the fluttering of her dress. 
Before she knew of his coming he might clasp her in his 
arms. 

As the little Laura sprang from the carriage, and danced 
rather than walked along the path, up the steps, through the 
hall, the driver rang the outside bell with some violence, and 
this at last proved effectual. Maurice's hungry ears detected 
movement, but it came from below. There was the sound of 
chairs being pushed back, of steps on the lower passages and 
stairs. 

The fact was this : Jane and the old nurse, worn out by 
uursing and' anxiety, having ascertained that Margaret was 
sleeping calmly, had allowed themselves to be beguiled by the 
pleasant fumes of tea and the kindly warmth of the kitchen 
fire into giving way themselves. During ^Margaret's flight 



THE NEST IS EMPTY. 445 

and Ad^le's pursuit, during the arrival of Margaret's hus- 
band and the subsequent drawing up of the carriage, they 
had been sleeping, one on each side of the kitchen fire. 

Jane was the first to be aroused — the first, that is to say, to 
gain full possession of her senses, for the violent ringing of 
the outside bell had startled the old woman so much that at 
first she scarcely knew where she was. Jane got up at once, 
straightened her sprightly figure, smoothed her hair and 
apron and struck a light. "Who in the world may it be?" 
she muttered indignantly: "I'd be bound it's one of them 
boys. The mistress just gone ofi" too, and frightening her out 
of her wits. Them sort hasn't got a spark of feeling about 
them." 

She walked leisurely up the stairs with her candle, and 
opened the door that led into the hall. She had scarcely 
done so before a blast of wind sweeping through the hall put 
it out. In the next moment her arm was seized, she was 
dragged into the semi-light outside and confronted with 
Maurice's fierce eyes. For while Jane was preparing herself 
to answer the importunate bell the child had been up and 
down ; she had opened the door of the difierent rooms, all 
well known to her; she had come down trembling and weep- 
ing to say that they were dark and empty, and where — where 
was mamma ? 

There was reproach in the wailing cry; in her rapid 
journey, in her enforced separation from L'Estrange, in her 
weariness, in her childish sorrow, this had been the one con- 
solation: at the end of it she should see her mother, she 
should rest in her arms. And now, when the end had come, 
when the home so intensely longed for had been found, the 
promised remained unfulfilled. 

The blow to Laura was all the more cruel that it was 
utterly unexpected. No sad forebodings had crossed her 
young mind. She had pictured the little parlor and the 
lighted lamp and her mother's gentle face and open arms, and 
then the rest in those arms, the telling out of her pent-up woes. 

The cottage had been found, but within it was only empty 
darkness. Laura threw herself down on the sofa, and her 
wailing cry reached the ears of her father as he dragged the 
landlady out into the light : " Mamma has gone, and nioii 



446 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SHOW. 

p5r8 is dead." That and his own disappointment made him 
almost mad for the moment. Seizing Jane by the shoulder, 
he shook lier roughly as he looked down into her white fe.ce: 
" What have you done with her, woman ? Speak, or by 
Hoaven I will make you !" 



CHAPTER X. 
LAURA AND HER FATHER. 

Oh, there is never sorrow of heart 

That shall lack a timely end, 
If but to God we turn and ask 

Of Him to be our Friend. 

It was an awful moment for the bewildered landlady. The 
wildness of the night, the mystery of that empty room, the 
violence of the disappointed man, brought vividly to her 
mind that other night when, but for the interposing power of 
God, her hands might have been imbrued with the inefface- 
able stain of crime. It had passed, it had been forgiven, but 
in this moment, her senses scarcely awake, the suddenness 
and mystery around her, it seemed almost as if the deed had 
been done, as if the accuser were before her. 

Instead of answering she cowered and shrank, while 
Maurice in his agony, without ever relaxing that vice-like 
grasp, repeated his fierce inquiries. " You know ; I can read 
it in your coward face. Great God, give me patience !" And 
as he spoke he shook her roughly, making the poor woman 
all the more powerless to utter a word. 

Only a few moments had passed, but they seemed ages to 
them both, before Arthur came out among the trees. His 
face was very pale, for in the interval the old woman had 
been telling him all that had happened — at least all she 
knew. It appeared that they were totally unexpecl ad, for 
although both Maurice and Arthur had written to announce 
their arrival, in the uncertainty of the winter-post from 
Switzerland they had preceded their letters. 

The continued suspense after Mrs. Churchill's cAeerfui 



LAUILI ASD IlEll FATHER. 447 

presence was withdrawn luid been too much for Margaret to 
bear up against, but her sudden disappearance was as much 
of a mystery to the old woman as it had been to them ; she 
connected it, however, with her illness, and the conclusions 
ehe drew were very gloomy. In the whole circumstance theie 
was only one ray of hope — Margaret's faithful friend was 
with her, as AdMe was missing too. But how had she allowed 
her to leave the house ? why had she not called for assistance ? 

Arthur, as he went out to meet the disappointed man, felt 
hope sink down in his heart. But though pale and sad his 
face was resolute. It would be necessary to act, and to act 
at once. Taking Maurice by the arm, he drew away from 
his grasp the terrified woman, " Mr. Grey," he said, " listen 
to me. Your wife is out there in the night. Be calm or 
nothing can be done. My cousin is with her." 

Maurice gave a sudden start. " "What? how?" he gasped. 

" I tell you," replied the younger man, " you must command 
yourself. She has had a dangerous fever ; it may be delirium 
— no one knows. In any case they must be instantly followed. 
We certainly did not pass them in the direction of the station. 
Take you the road to the sea ; I with Martha will go inland. 
Mr. Grey, do you hear?" for Maurice was staring wildly 
about him. 

" In the night, by the sea," he muttered, staggering blindly 
against the wall. 

Arthur was in despair. This was worse than all; how 
could he make him understand ? But at that very moment 
help came from an unexpected source. A little soft hand was 
put into that of the bewildered man, large spiritual eyes 
looked up into his face. Laura had heard the last words. 
Her father's emotion had for the first time brought him near 
to her. 

" Dear papa, you will find mamma. Come !" 

He submitted to the leading hand, walked with the littlfl 
one down the garden-path to the gate, outside of which the 
saddled horse was standing, quietly cropping the wayside 
grass. 

The fearless child caught the bridle and put it into her 
father's hand. Then first Maurice seemed to understand 
what was wanted. He took the bridle from the child's hand 



448 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

and stooped to kiss her on the brow. "Pray for us, Laura," 
he whispered — " your father and mother." 

A moment, and the good horse was spurred forward again, 
ibis time on the sandy road that led down to the sea. 

Happily, the moon came out from a rent in the clouds. 

The child looked up. " He will see mamma," she whis- 
kered ; then, as the horseman disappeared behind the tree?, 
her strong little heart failed. 

She threw herself down on her knees in the wet grass by 
the garden-gate, and clinging to its posts poured out her sor- 
row : " God, save mamma. O God, bring her back to 
Laura." 

It was the landlady who found her there. 

After her first terror about the strange events of the even- 
ing, Jane vaguely remembered to have caught a glimpse of 
the little one, and her first thought was to search for her in 
every direction, for she was alone in the house, Nurse Martha 
having at once started ofi" with Arthur to look for the wan- 
derers. 

She found Laura at last by the garden-gate, and in spite 
of resistance carried her in to the warm fireside, for, practical 
in the midst of her excitement, Jane had rekindled the parlor 
fire, and it was blazing merrily. 

" Miss Laura, my dear, think what your mamma will say 
if you're ill too ; and you know you'll be ill if you stay out 
in the cold." 

This made her submit at last to be wrapped up warmly and 
laid on the parlor sofa. It was well for her. The fatigue and 
subsequent excitement, the exhaustion of her sorrow, and the 
pleasant warmth combined to cause a drowsiness that could 
not be restrained. 

Laura forgot all her troubles. While the fate of her pa- 
rents still trembled in the balance she slept childhood's un- 
broken sleep, and Jane was set free to run up to her own little 
charge, who had been aroused by the commotion and was 
crying out for her lustily. 

She found him so excited that as it was impossible to divide 
herself between parlor and bedroom, she thought it well to 
wrap him up warmly and bring him down. 

The bright fire was as effectual with Willie as it had been 



UNITED AT LAST. 449 

with Laura. Jane laid him down on the sofa, and the hard, 
unsympathetic woman felt her eyes grow dim and her heart 
soft as she watched the quiet sleep of the little ones — the one 
round and rosy as the day, the other pale, with a troubled 
look even in sleep, but fair as one of God's angels. 



CHAPTER XL 

UNITED AT LAST. 

One moment these were heard and seen — another 
Past ; and the two who stood beneath that night. 
Each only saw or heard or felt the other. 

Adele had been swift — swift as the wind. Instinctively 
in her rapid departure she had chosen their favorite road, 
that which led down to the sea, but at first it seemed as if all 
her efforts were destined to be in vain. The fluttering gar- 
ments had disappeared ; on the white road, stretching away 
into the distance, was no sign of the wanderer. 

Choking down the horror which possessed her, the young 
girl tried to collect her senses. A few moments ago their 
patient had been sleeping so peacefully that their fears had 
been set at rest, they had believed her out of danger ; now — 
Ad^le was inexperienced, but rapidly in her despair old stories 
of disease, madness, delirium, unnatural strength crowded in 
upon her mind. 

What if at last the long anguish had destroyed the fair 
mind ? What if a dull horror was to swamp their hopes for 
ever? If — if — She dared not look this last woe in the 
face. Impulsively she pressed on, her trembling limbs en- 
dowed with a new strength, her young heart breathing out its 
resolves upon the night : " I will save her — I. Great God, in 
Thy mercy help me." 

She had come to a turn in the road. Rounding it, she 
made an eager bound forward, for there through the dark- 
ness she could distinguish at last the outlines of Margaret's 
form. 

Pressing her hands to her head, Ad^le tried to think. If 
39 



450 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

only the old nurse had been with her, or their landlady 1 
How was she to act ? how in her single strength to arrest and 
bring back the fugitive? 

Yet there was something in Margaret's gliding movement 
which made the girl think rather of somnambulism than of 
delirium. If this should be the cause of her flight Adele 
knew that a sudden awakening might possibly be dangerous 
to health or reason. 

Struggling with her terror, trying to come to some right 
conclusion, she at last reached her friend Close by was a 
little path which Adele and Margaret kn^w well. It led off 
from the road, through a wilderness of stunted grass and 
tangled weeds, to the sea. 

Here Margaret paused a moment, as if -^n hesitation. Dur- 
ing that moment's pause AdMe looked a^ her fixedly. The 
young girl's last suspicion had been true. By the wide-open, 
sightless eyes, by the groping of the haMs, by the soft, con- 
tinuous murmuring of the lips, she ss»w her friend waa 
asleep. 

Straining her ears, she distinguished th'ough the moaning 
wind and sobbing sea some of the word* that were falling 
from Margaret's lips, "Which way?" A.nd then groping 
forward, with that blind, pitiful movement of the hands, 
" To the sea ? Cold, so cold, but," with ? smile that made 
Ad^le weep, " Maurice is there." 

As she spoke, Margaret turned into the winding path, and 
Addle shivered. What awful dream wa* bewildering her 
brain ? 

Throwing her arm gently round the sleeper, she tried to 
draw her back to the road. 

" Maurice is here," she said in a tone as drcAmy as her own; 
«* come." 

To her intense relief, Margaret obeyed her guidance, the 
Bhore was left behind, they were passing on to their quiet 
home ; but the relief was transient. Scarcely had they lost 
sight of the sea before Margaret stopped — the bewildered look 
returned to her face — there began that dark, dreary groping 
of the hands. " I have lost him," she cried in a voice pitiful 
as a child's wail, and turning once more she pressed forward 
to the sands with a swift-gliding step. What could ttp voxuag 



UNITED AT LAST. 451 

girl do? In her powerlessness the tears rolled down her 
face 

Her arms were still round her friend, but she did not dare 
to constrain her. " Margaret," she whispered pleadingly, her 
lips close to her friend's ear. 

Quietly Margaret turned her pale face, over which a strange, 
sweet smile was beaming. " Coming, my beloved," she an- 
swered softly. 

They had left the grass and tangled weeds behind them ; 
they were treading the soft yellow sands ; behind them was 
the warm earth, touched by the light of a young crescent 
moon, set like a silver bow in the parting clouds; before 
them, dark and hungry, roaring evermore like a monster 
chained, lay the awful sea. 

Addle groaned. If indeed a conflict were before them, she 
wished it had taken place above, while those terrible waters 
were comparatively distant, and Margaret was now pressing 
forward as though they were her goal. " Margaret, my dar- 
ling ! for pity's sake awake !" she cried in her desperation. 

But Margaret only answered the voice of her dream. 
Again came that strange, sweet smile — again her lips moved : 
" Coming, Maurice, coming." Then, as Addle with all her 
force tried to drag her back to the path, " Patience, my be- 
loved !" and as she spoke the young girl felt in her quiet re- 
sistance the strength of madness. 

Lifting up her heart in a passionate prayer for help to the 
one Being who seems in these awful moments near and real to 
weak humanity. Addle made another effort. " Margaret I" 
she cried, and the ring of her young voice sounded clear 
above the tumult of wind and waves — " Margaret, listen to 
me." 

Had she been understood at last ? Was the terrible m(y 
ment over ? Certainly her voice had pierced the films ot 
sleep. Into the fixed eyes came a sudden meaning. Margar 
ret shivered, and pausing in her mad flight looked before her 
wildly. But not yet was the danger over — rather it was pro- 
longed and intensified. The quiet somnambulism had given 
place to the worst kind of delirium. 

With a shriek Margaret threw her hands above her head 
and tore herself free from the detaining grasp. " Maurice I" 



452 CHASTE AS IGE, PUBE AS SNOW. 

she cried in the strange exaltation of this madness. " I saw 
him there — they shall keep me from him no longer. Be- 
loved, wait for me ; I am coming." 

One despairing glance Ad^le threw around her ; no hnman 
being was in sight; she felt numb and powerless, while the 
frail being, the faint pulsations of whose ebbing life they had 
been watching through those anxious nights and days, seemed 
endowed suddenly with a giant's strength. Sobbing convul- 
sively, Ad^le threw herself upon Margaret, and seizing her 
by the waist dragged her backward with all her remaining 
strength. A moment of struggle ; then she felt herself being 
borne along the sands, her arms si ill round Margaret, but all 
her weight as nothing in comparison with this fierce energy 
of disease. Cooler and damper blew the wind, nearer and 
nearer came the sound of beating waves ; at last the light 
foam began to sprinkle their faces ; yet the faithful girl would 
not loosen her grasp — rather she would die with her friend. 

A moment^ and memory, grown acute in the death-agony, 
showed her pleasant scenes and soft home-pictures, children's 
faces, blaziug fires, fair poetic dreams of beauty and use, 
Arthur and the to-come which was to have been so bright, — 
all to pass away for ever in the pitiless suction of those on- 
creeping waves. 

Another moment, and she felt the crawling foam about 
her ; a wave fell thundering even at their feet, throwing over 
them its cold salt spray ; and the young girl moaned. There 
would still be time to escape, to return to life and its warm 
beauty. Would she draw back ? A thousand times no. In 
the numbing of every faculty, in the passing away of every 
joy, that grasp of the slender arms grew only the mightier. 
She would save her friend if she could. If not, all she had 
left was to die with her. Like a black cloud that wave hung 
over them. What delayed its onward sweep ? Ad^le used to 
say afterward that it was a miracle, for if it had fallen they 
were lost, beyond the possibility of salvation. 

But while they stood, their feet in the foam and that omi- 
nous cloud above them — for Margaret's impetuous rushing 
had ceased, and Ad^le lacked power to drag her backward 
— there was a shout, a cry. Another of those long moments, 
and a strong arm was extended ; they were drawn on to the 



UNITEh AT LAST. 453 

dry Bands, and even as they stood there shivering the mighty 
wave fell, sucking back into the watery waste that lay beyond 
the treacherous foam where their feet had been. Margaret 
fell back unconscious, while AdSle for the moment scarcely 
thought either of her or their preserver. 

As she felt the solid ground beneath her feet and the cool 
air around her she fell on her knees. "Saved, saved!" she 
cried, and the labored hysteric sobs showed how terrible her 
excitement had been. 

But then came other thoughts. Had they escaped the sea 
only to meet worse dangers ? Who was this deliverer ? She 
turned round to look at him. By the light of the moon, 
which still struggled through the clouds, she was able to see 
his face. There was about it a wildness that seemed to con- 
firm her worst fears, and his arms were about Margaret — he 
was gazing into her face. 

She did not seem to be aware of it. She was all but inan- 
imate, for, although not alive to the terrible danger of her 
situation, Margaret had been exhausted by the struggle. 

The sight aroused Addle. Though her knees were trem- 
bling under her from fatigue and exhaustion, though her 
bosom was heaving with sobs that refused to be choked down, 
the brave little champion had still a work to do. Her friend 
was helpless ; she must defend her. 

Adele got up, and showing a pale but resolute front 
touched the stranger on the arm. He turned to her with a 
sudden start and muttered apology for his neglect; he did 
not seem to have been aware of her presence, and as she 
caught a nearer view of the dark face, lined with suffering, 
convulsed with emotion, some suspicion of the truth began to 
dawn upon her mind. 

A flutter of hope, more exciting than all the previous agi- 
tation, nearly choked her; the dignified little sentence in 
which she had intended, while thanking him for his timely 
assistance, to rebuke his presumption and recall him to a 
sense of his duty as a man and a gentleman, died away on 
her lips; she could only stammer out incoherently, "Who 
are you ? For pity's sake tell me 1" 

The dark eyes which had been scanning the pale calm 
beauty of Margaret's face were turned on her. " I am her 



454 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

husband," he said simply ; his yoice trembled, he spoke with 
difficulty. "And you have saved her," he added softly. But 
this Ad^le scarcely heard. She had turned away. She waa 
passing as fast as her wearied limbs could carry her along the 
path that led to the road. She would leave them alone t(y 
gether, and — the cottage held her Arthur. 



They were united at last. By the shores of the surging 
sea, the desolate night around them, they stood together, and 
at first, so overpowering were the emotions that swept over 
the man's soul, he could think only of this — that they were 
together, that she was in his arms, safe from harm and dan- 
ger — that once more he was gazing into her face — a face so 
calm and pure that even in this moment Maurice cursed him- 
self for not having understood better the strong purity, the 
beauty, the loveliness of the soul it revealed. 

After the delirium which had so nearly been fatal a great 
calm had fallen upon Margaret. With the touch of Mau- 
rice's hand, with the encircling of his arms, the unrest seemed 
to have fled. She did not look up, apparently she did not 
know him ; but her eyes closed, her breathing became soft 
and regular, she lay back in his arms contentedly, like a 
weary child that has found its resting-place. 

In times of intense feeling a life seems to be condensed 
into a moment. Scarcely more than a moment had Maurice 
been holding her to his throbbing heart before he recovered 
from his stupor to a knowledge of the nece&sity for immediate 
action. 

The winds of the wintry night were beating about his 
darling. She was ill, unconscious, it might be dying. Her 
clothes were drenched with the sea-foam that had besprinkled 
them in their wild flight, her hair, damp with the night va- 
pors, was clinging about her face, the shoes in which she had 
started from the cottage had been carried out to sea, the deli- 
cate lavender dress and soft lace ruffles with which she had 
adorned herself that she might look fair in the eyes of the 
husband she had gone out to meet in her delirium, were torn 
in the struggle that had taken place, were bespattered with 



UNITED AT LAST. 456 

mad and sea-sand. It was not in such a plight as this that 
Margaret had thought of presenting herself to the long- 
absent. But when does anything in this world correspond 
with those same dreams and ideas of ours? In Maurice's 
eyes she was fair — perhaps all the fairer for her weakness. 
Hastily he took off his fur-lined cloak and wrapped it round 
her, then he raised her in his arms to carry her up the road. 

This time the horse had been tethered. Maurice had 
caught sight of the light dresses in the moonlight just at the 
moment when Adele had succeeded in arousing Margaret 
from the dangerous sleep, and there had been a moment's 
hesitation. Totally unprepared for the impetuous rush upon 
the sea, he had taken the precaution, before following the 
fugitives on foot, of tying up the horse, that it might be ready 
for any emergency. 

He was glad he had done so, for the emotion of that even- 
ing seemed to have affected his physical power. Under the 
weight of his wife, his recovered treasure, he staggered and 
almost fell. 

Margaret remained unconscious, and Maurice fervently 
hoped that for the moment she would continue in the same 
state. He was- fearful of the effect upon her mind of a sud- 
den awakening in his arms : but it was not to be. Just as 
they reached the point of junction between the path and high- 
road a faint tremor convulsed her ; she opened her eyes and 
turned them on the dark face that was stooping over her. 

Maurice was afraid the delirium was about to return ; but 
gazing at her anxiously he saw, to his astonishment, that 
there was no bewilderment in her eyes ; only, as she met her 
liusband's gaze, she glided from his arms, and before he knew 
what she meant to do she was kneeling at his feet on the 
moonlit road. Her hands were clasped, her pale face looked 
haggard in its earnestness. "Maurice! Maurice, forgive me!" 
she cried. 

At the sight of her husband the memory of that one mo- 
ment of weakness had flashed over her soul with such a bitter 
force that until his forgiveness had been gained, she could not 
forgive herself. 

But Maurice ! If an angel had knelt to him he could 
scarcely have been more astonished. In his agitation h« 



456 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

seized her almost roughly, and raising her from the ground 
pressed her once more to his breast, while the hot tears fell on 
her face and neck. 

" Margarfet, you will kill me ! Beloved, it is I who should 
kneel — I who should make my life one long repentance," 

Then she twined her arms about his neck and laid her head 
upon his shoulder, but she was not altogether satisfied. To 
the craving of her weakness his answer was like an evasion : 
she persisted in her demand : " You are good to me, dear, but 
you have not answered. Tell me, tell me ! Is my miserable 
folly forgiven ?" 

" Margaret, for pity's sake — " he began. 

But she stopped him, and in her look and tone there was 
some of the wildness of disease. "I see how it is," she 
moaned ; " he is too kind to say it, but I know my folly was 
beyond forgiveness. Have I not felt it ? O God ! O God I 
pity !" Her voice sank into a moan. Her head fell heavily 
on her breast : she began to cry plaintively, like a child that 
has been crossed in its whim. 

They were close now to the spot where the horse had been 
tethered ; the moon shone brightly above them ; their dark 
shadows made a blot on the whiteness of the moonlit road. 
Maurice paused a moment, and the drops of agony stood on 
his brow. 

He felt the urgent necessity for getting her home with as 
little delay as possible, but in the state in which she was he 
dared not put her out of his arms. He bowed his head over 
her till his cheek touched hers : " Be comforted, my wife, my 
own — mine now and for ever. Forgive you ? — yes, yes." 
And then looking up he turned his pale face to the skies, as if 
calling Heaven for a witness to his extremity : " I have for- 
given her — I who wronged her, who tortured her, who vexed 
her pure soul by mistrust ! God preserve my reason !" 

But Margaret took his answer to her heart. She smiled 
again, the wildness left her eyes, and a deep, restful calm took 
its place. She said no more, but for the first time since their 
meeting by the waters she pressed her lips to his. 

Without demur she allowed him to lift her into the saddle 
and to support her with his one hand, while with the other he 
took the bridle and led the horse at a quick walk to the c)i/ 



UNITED AT LAST. 457 

tage, which was about half a mile distant from the little path 
that led down to the sea. 

Before they had gone very far Margaret had relapsed into 
total unconsciousness, and Maurice was obliged to mount the 
horse himself, taking her before him on the saddle. 

Meanwhile, Ad^le had reached the cottage, just in time to 
stop Arthur and the old nurse from starting on another fruit- 
less search. 

As the horse with its double burden paced along the road, 
she and her cousin, their arms lovingly intertwined, stood at 
the gate of the cottage-garden waiting for its approach out 
of the shadows. They were together and alone — Nurse 
Martha and the landlady being busy indoors, making every- 
thing ready in Margaret's room, for the young girl had told 
her tale of horrors, and they feared it would be impossible 
for Margaret to survive so much. 

But Addle had seen her calm face, and she answered the 
doleful prophecies of the nurses by a smile: "You'll see, 
nurse ; our Margaret will soon be better now." 

They had been extremely anxious to seize the young girl, 
after her breathless entry and thrilling tale, and put her to 
bed as an invalid, but Addle decidedly refused submission. 
The sight of Arthur was like a tonic to her trembling nerves. 
She would only allow her poor little wet feet to be dried and 
warmed by the parlor fire, close to which the children were 
still sleeping, and her wet clothes to be changed. As to shut- 
ting herself out from Arthur when she had just found him, it 
was simply cruel to ask it. 

She was the heroine of the moment, for although her own 
tale had barely done justice to the self-forgetfulness with 
which that terrible struggle had been conducted, they yet 
heard enough to know that in her faithful devotion she had 
risked her own life, and Arthur, the old woman, the landlady 
looked upon the young girl with a new respect. 

" What did you think of, Adele," asked her cousin aa, 
wrapped up warmly, she stood clinging to him by the garden- 
gate — " what did you think of when that ugly wave was so 
close to you?" Doubtless, Arthur knew what the answer 
would be. Of course the heroine had thought about her hero. 
How could it possibly have been otherwise ? 



458 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

" Dear," she replied softly, and the ready tears flowed down 
her cheeks, " I thought of you, and how miserable and lonely 
you would be. Margaret gone, and — and — " 

"My Ad^le gone," he said very softly, filling up th* 
pause. 

And then — ah yes — and then all kinds of foolish things no 
doubt were said and done, for these young people were, as it 
will be seen, very young, and what is more very much in love ; 
and as we all know the kind of things, perhaps it is scarcely 
necessary to put them down in black and white. 

Black and white is not the dress for lovers' nothings, 
especially the sweet almost childish nothings that would flow 
from lips like Ad^le's and Arthur's. They should be written 
in such colors as the blushing east can give, inscribed by the 
pen of one of God's angels. 

For young as Adele and Arthur were, they knew what they 
were doing. They had passed through the hand of the Great 
Instructor, so terrible in His aspect, so wise, even loving, in 
His ways of dealing with weak humanity. In the furnace of 
Bufiering their hearts had been tried, and they knew how to 
value their happiness, how to prize one another. 



CHAPTER XII. 

A LONG SLEEP. 

O wind! 
If winter comes, can spring be far behind 7 

Everything was ready in Margaret's room — warm 
blankets, steaming cans of water, hot fomentations, cordials 
of many a different kind — for her nurses were afraid that the 
unconsciousness of which Ad^le had spoken might, after her 
previous excitement, be very difficult to conquer. They were 
surprised, then, when Maurice at last carried her in and laid 
her down, to find that she bore every appearance of being 
wrapped in a quiet, healthy sleep ; indeed, so convinced was 
her husband that this, and this only, was the cause of her un- 
consciousness, that he would allow no means to be used foi 



A LONG SLEEP. 459 

her restoration, at least until the morning, when the doctor 
from the neighboring town had already promised to look in 
upon them. 

Nurse Martha shook her head. There was something mys- 
terious about it all. " Who ever heard," she asked Jane in 
whispers, "of a body sleeping awa' that gait, and she in a 
dangerous fever that had wellnigh ta'en her life ?" 

But in spite of protest Maurice's wishes were obeyed. 
Margaret's wet things were removed as quietly as possible by 
the experienced old woman, and she only stirred once during 
the process. Her husband watched her sleep that night. 
Kindly but peremptorily he sent every one away, and sat him- 
self by his wife's side, counting the very pulsations of her 
heart as the hours of the night passed by. The old nurse 
and the landlady (they had insisted upon sending the younger 
people to bed) watched by turns during the night in the little 
parlor adjoining the bedroom, for neither of them had much 
belief in the eflBciency of this new care-taker. But no sound 
came from the room where the husband was watching the 
death-like repose of her he had wronged and deserted, the 
woman who was suffering, as he told himself bitterly, for his 
uncomprehending folly. Once or twice during that long 
watch he grew alarmed, the rest was so deep ; but putting his 
ear to her heart he heard the pulsations, faint yet regular, and 
he was comforted. 

So the night went by, and in the morning he could no 
longer keep his treasure to himself; they would all come in 
to know how she was, to watch and wonder. The little Laura 
was the first to creep into the room. She had been told on 
the preceding night that her mother had been found, but was 
too ill to see her — that she would doubtless be better in the 
morning. Submitting to the inevitable had become a habit 
with Laura. She had allowed herself to be undressed and 
put to bed, but very early, in night-dress and bare toes, she 
made a voyage of discovery to find out where her mamma 
could be. 

When, as she softly opened the door of Margaret's room, 
the little child saw her father sitting dressed on a chair by 
the bedside, and her mother, so white and silent, in the bed, 
Bhe stopped suddenly, trembling from head to fo )t. Laura 



4G0 CHASFE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

had heard of death, though she had never seen it, and this 
solemn hush, this silent watching, struck like a chill upon her 
heart ; she turned very pale, and seemed half afraid to cross 
the room, but her father called her : " Mamma is asleep, dar- 
ling ; come here and see her." He took her up and laid her 
down on the bed beside Margaret, telling her to be very stilL 
Laura scarcely required the warning. She crept close to her 
mother. The strange child could not have spoken at that 
moment, she was so absolutely content. And Maurice had 
to turn away from her searching gaze ; he would not have 
his child see that tears were gathering in his eyes at the sight 
of them together — the mother and child united one to the 
other, given back to his arms. 

But still that sleep went on, and all but Maurice grew 
uneasy. The doctor came in at a tolerably early hour, but 
went away again after giving utterance to a few common- 
places. It was evident that he was puzzled. He asked re- 
peatedly whether any narcotic had been given to her, and 
when he was answered in the negative shook his head omin- 
ously. She had better, he said, be left to herself; it might 
possibly be dangerous to arouse her. Nature in some cases 
was the best guide ; he would call again. 

The hours of the day passed by — morning, noon, evening, 
and still Maurice watched, and still he hoped, while still there 
was no cessation of that death-like trance. Evening passed 
into night, and all but Maurice gave up hope. They were 
allowed to come into the room and share the watch, for there 
was not one in the little house who did not enter deeply into 
the anxiety. The night deepened, and still no sign of life 
from the sleeper. Ad^le's cheeks became pale and her eyes 
red with frequent weeping ; this seemed so desolate an ending 
to their hopes and anxieties. On the child's young face the 
shadow deepened. She had found her mother, but that 
mother was deaf to her little one's voice, unconscious even of 
her presence ; the old nurse's gestures grew more and more 
mysterious, only Maurice retained his quiet confidence. 

The hours of the night passed by ; none of them would go 
to bed. If those eyes were ever again to open, each one 
wished to be the first to hear the joyful news. The night 
waned, and even Maurice grew restless. His face resumed 



A LONG SLEEP. " 461 

the old haggard look ; oftener and oftener he applied to her 
lips the testing mirror, which still at each trial gave the 
answering dimness. The night passed into morning, the 
night-lamp showed a yellow flame, the white dawn began to 
struggle with the darkness ; only Laura and her father were 
in the room. The child was watching her mother's face, 
Maurice had turned away to draw up the blind ; perhaps the 
breaking of the morning-light might arouse the sleeper ; they 
were afraid as yet to use stronger means. Suddenly the child 
gave a cry. He looked hastily at the bed ; Margaret was in 
the same position. There was the same death-like immobility 
of face, the same rigidity of attitude. 

But Laura's eyes were rapt and eager. " Mamma moved, 
she will soon awake," she cried, and before her father could 
stop her she had danced out of the room to proclaim the joy- 
ful news. 

Ad^le was dozing on the parlor sofa, Arthur was pacing 
the room restlessly. He saw the light in the little one's eyes 
and stopped. Laura to Arthur was a kind of prophet, a 
superior being. 

" Mamma will soon awake," she said, and passed on to tell 
the old nurse, who was in the kitchen preparing restoratives 
of various kinds, for she had made up her mind that some 
means would have to be used to break this death-like sleep. 

Ad^e had heard the child's voice. She started from the 
Eofa. " Let us go to her," she cried, and Arthur and she 
fi&ai into the room together. 

They were joined after a few moments by the child, the 
nurse, the landlady, all eager to find the happy news con- 
firmed. 

The child was right. Margaret was certainly waking 
The death-like stillness had gone from her face, her hands 
moved, she sighed now and then. 

Maurice hung over her, breathless in his anxiety ; he would 
meet her first glance. AdSle and Arthur stood together at 
fche foot of the bed ; the child had crept on to it, and lay very 
Bilent close beside her mother. It seemed a long time that 
they waited there together, but when the end came it was like 
a shock to them all. 

A shiver convulsed her, her eyelids quivered ; slo\<ly she 



462 CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. 

raised them, and first fixed her eyes upon her husband, then 
looked in a bewildered, half-frightened way about the room. 

Maurice raised her on his arm. " Margaret," he whispered, 
and she looked at him again. 

" Is it morning ?" she asked, and when he had answered in 
the affirmative, " I knew it would come," she said, then lay 
silent, smiling calmly. 

Evidently as yet she did not know where she was, and 
Maurice was perplexed. 

Ad61e came to the rescue. Motioning to him to give up 
his place, she stooped over her friend. " Margaret darling," she 
whispered, " Maurice has come, and little Laura and Arthur." 

The familiar face and well-known voice seemed to arouse 
her. " It is not a dream, then," she said. " No," for the lit- 
tle Laura's clasping arms were about her neck, " my child is 
here, and Maurice ; I thought I saw him last night and that 
he forgave me. Was it true, Adele ?" 

Her voice sank, for she was very weak, but the old nurse 
came forward with a cordial, which restored her so much that 
her mind began gradually to take in all that had happened. 

Later in the day they dressed her and laid her down once 
more on the parlor sofa. Until then she had not spoken 
much, she had been in a quiet, passive state, but with the 
familiar surroundings a full sense of the reality of her dream- 
like happiness seemed to come to her. The first person for 
whom she asked was Arthur. 

In his boyish timidity he had vanished as soon as ever he 
had become certain that she was really awake. Adele found 
him and brought him into the room. Margaret held out her 
hand. " How can I ever thank you, my best, my most un- 
tiring friend ?" she said. 

And then — for he seemed as if he did not know how to 
answer — she drew Ad^le toward her and joined their hands. 

"You will be happy," she said smiling — "perhaps all the 
happier for this. Maurice" — he was sitting close beside her, 
his arm round her shoulders — "we shall be happier too, foi 
if God will we shall understand better." Her voice sank, she 
looked dreamily over the sea : " Morning is all the fairer foi 
the black night that goes before. Dear, we should thank 
Him even for our darkness." 



A 000 127 445 5 



